


Black Rose

by Heavenlea6292



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Ace Castiel, Addiction, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ancient History, Angst, Anxiety Attacks, BAMF Kevin Tran, BAMF Meg, Backstory, Biblical References, Dean Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Demon Mythology, Flashbacks, Hallucifer, John Winchester Bashing, Kevin Tran is So Done, Meg Backstory, Meg Lives, Mentions of past abuse, Multi, Not very Pro-Dean, Oedipal Issues, Sam Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Sam's Oedipal Issues, Sorry Not Sorry, Stillbirth, Suicial Ideation, The Cage, ace!Castiel, anti-john winchester, belief system crisis, castiel is ace, dean fans beware, flashbacks of the cage, giggly drunk kevin tran, jody mills is the best, kevin/meg friendship, masochistic tendencies all around, meg instead of crowley, mentions of john's a+ parenting, more to be added later bc im trash, most of the time in this, past meg/lucifer, sam and jody, slow build sam/meg, some hallucifer, these tags are a hot mess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-19
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-04-21 11:53:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 129,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4828145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heavenlea6292/pseuds/Heavenlea6292
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You reap what you sow.<br/>Canon Divergence to "Meg Shoulda Lived, Fuck off Crowley" or "Meg doesn't get stabbed in the FUCKING FACE" AU. Sam/Meg, slow build, backstory, takes place from the season 8 finale episode until whenever, meg's backstory, not very Dean positive, hypercritical of the winchester belief system<br/>*Updates sorta-monthly, i do my best guise*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, this fic is my precious pet project that I have been working on for about a year and a half. You're probably gonna want a passing familiarity with the Old Testament, but I really tried to universalize the story so it shouldn't be too hard to figure out who/what the story is about. I've always wanted a backstory for Meg, and I've found a lot of amazing ones but they just didn't suit what I was thinking. So I wrote this. I also wrote this because I really love my ship and I am not even sorry about that.  
> And since everyone knows I love titling my fics with song lyrics/titles, I might as well let you know this one is named for "Black Rose" by Eliza Rickman.
> 
> Also- this fic updates sorta monthly. by sorta monthly i mean I try to do it monthly but sadly i am only and eel so sometimes it can be like 2 weeks late.

"So, the final trial is purifying a demon," Dean muttered, "Not exactly sure how we're gonna do that- or what demon to use. We don't exactly have a store of them laying around."  
Sam rubbed his face, sighing. Dean was right; it would be hard to catch and transport a demon just to purify them, but then an idea hit him.  
"We have a demon here," Sam said, lifting his head, "Meg. We can ask her."  
Dean looked at him as if he'd just sprouted horns- he'd agreed to saving her from Crowley in return for her showing them where the angel tablet was- he'd rather have killed them both and been done with it.  
"Sam, I know you don't want to kill her because she's helped us-"  
"She didn't just help us, she saved our asses!" Sam exclaimed, "Twice! I don't exactly feel right about sending her back to hell with all the demons who want to kill her in return for her helping us. And frankly, I don't wanna be the one to explain to Cas when he gets back why we let Meg die when we had a choice."  
Dean sighed, rolling his eyes.  
"She's already pretty pissed with us for the handcuffs," Dean said, "She'd probably betray us first chance she got."  
Sam turned away, rolling his eyes.  
"You were the one who insisted on the cuffs," Sam replied, gathering the papers off the table, "I'll ask."  
"She's gonna say no," Dean replied, tipping his beer in the direction of the room that Meg was staying in, "Sure, she helped us, but she's a demon and she likes being that way. She's not gonna fall for a 'pretty please'."  
Sam looked at Dean with a tired expression, sighing.  
"It's worth a try, Dean," he replied, "We can't just throw our hands in the air and say it isn't worth it. If there's even the slightest chance that she says yes, then it's worth the five minutes this conversation is gonna take."  
"Okay Pollyanna Sunshine," Dean replied, rolling his eyes.

Sam sighed, walking down the hall to the locked room they were keeping her in. It was a lot nicer than the dungeon, but he could understand Meg's anger. The room wasn't much better than the panic room and she hadn't done anything recently that was worth locking her up for. For the most part, it was all on principle.

He knocked on the door lightly, calling her name.  
"Meg? Meg, I'm coming in, is that alright?" he asked.  
"Does it really matter, gigantor?" she called back, "You'll come in anyways, but thanks for pretending I have a choice. You always were the good jailer."  
Sam sighed, pressing his head against the door. This was already off to a bad start.  
He put the key in the lock, turning it and opening the door.  
Meg was curled up against the headboard of the bed, the gossip magazines he'd brought for her strewn across the floor and bed as she stared up at the fan on the ceiling.  
"You must be bringing me news from the big bad brother," she said, not looking at him, "Usually you just slide the magazines under the door."  
"I can't..." he paused, rubbing the back of his neck, "Sorry, Meg."  
"What can I say, Mr. Jailer? I'm used to it," she replied, "But hey, these digs are like the Ritz compared to the series of scummy bathrooms I was stuck in for a year."  
"Meg-"  
"I'm a bit bitter, truth be told," she replied, finally looking at him, "Got smacked around, played it up real good for the fatman downstairs, and not even a thank you from Dean-o." She looked away, frowning, "What’s a girl gotta do to get a bag of Doritos or a thank you these days? Should've just saved your stupid ass and called it a day."

Sam sat down on the edge of the bed, looking at her face. The injuries that had once taken over half her face had already begun to fade and heal, rather slow for a demon but faster than any human.  
"Hey, it's starting to heal pretty well," he said, reaching out for her hands, "Let me check your wrists."  
She held out her wrists, rolling her eyes as he looked at the bloodstained bandaged under the silver. He let out a sympathetic wince and he looked them over.

"Hard to heal with these on. Seems like the skin grows back just to be rubbed right back off," she said, hissing softly as Sam unlocked them and laid them down on the bed, "What do you want?"  
"I can't check on your injuries?" Sam asked, feeling a twinge of guilt, "Is your vessel wearing out or something?"  
"No," she replied, watching his hands as they wrapped the bandages, "I don't know what it is. Seems like the year of torture really took it out of me. Not healing the way I should be."

He nodded, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a tube of antibiotic ointment and rubbing it gently on her wounds. She let out a soft hiss, flinching a little as he spread it out, his brow furrowed in concentration.

"Sam," she said firmly, making him look up, "What do you want from me?"  
"I..." he paused, trying to find the words, "We found out what the final trial is."  
"And?" she asked, "What is it?"  
"We have to purify a demon. We do that, the gates are shut for good."  
"Great," she replied, "So, you want me to summon one? Maybe go out and bring one home for you?" she asked as he re-wrapped her wrists, "Or are you gonna use me as dispensable bait for one?"  
"No, we wouldn't-"  
"Please, this is me you're talking to, Sam," she said, pulling her wrists away from him, "I was dispensable bait before, won't make the mistake of believing otherwise again. I'd rather make the executive decision to fall instead of being tripped."

Sam nodded, sighing to himself. She was right- they had used her as bait before, and they had barely given it a second thought at the time. Why would she trust them now?

"Well, I thought you're a demon, and you're probably not thrilled with the aspect of being trapped in the pit for all eternity with every demon after you...so I thought I'd offer you an alternative."

She sat back, leaning against the headboard.

"You wanna purify me," she said, staring at him hard, "Is that what you want to do? You want...to purify me?"  
Sam was taken aback by the venom in her voice. He didn’t think she’d be so offended. Pissed, okay, skeptical, sure. But not… this.  
"You think...you have the nerve to ask me- you son of a bitch," she said, laughing loudly, staring up at the ceiling again, "You think that's some sort of alternative, Sam? Purifying me, turning me into a human soul again? Do you have any idea what you would be doing to me? Not just turning me human, taking away a part of who I have been for thousands of years- do you understand the guilt? The pain? Do you know what happened to the demon that the Men of Letters purified, Sam? It's not in that dusty old film reel. He killed himself. He couldn't take the nightmares, the horrible overwhelming grief, the knowledge that all of that blood was on his hands, don't you know what that does to a soul? No thank you. I like what I am. Very comfortable with staying the way I am."

Sam didn't know what to say- he'd never considered the possibility of it being a negative. Wouldn't she want to be human?

"I thought this was the only way to keep you out of hell, to keep you up here with Cas-"  
"What about Castiel?" she snapped, glaring at him, "He's gone. Didn't bat an eye, just blinked off into oblivion as angels are wont to do, leaving me to die and you two to clean up the mess. And you two dunderheads aren't gonna find him if he doesn't want to be found. How do you even know he would want me alive? Human?" she rolled her eyes, "How do you even know that I would want to be alive for Castiel? After he just fucking left me?"  
"You told me," Sam said, "Outside the Lucifer's Crypt."  
"I told you a lot of things that night," she replied, "What happens in Vegas, Sam. Don't you know the rules?"  
"You can't take something like that back."  
"Like hell I can't!" she yelled, picking up one of her magazines and throwing it, "I was gonna die, it was the heat of the moment, call it whatever you want, it doesn't mean anything."  
"And what about the Team Sam speech, huh?" Sam demanded, "What was all that 'I know your sad little thoughts and feelings'? You trying to tell me that was all bullshit too? Because I gotta tell you, I fell for it."  
"Good, it worked then," she replied.  
"What worked?" he asked, "What about that was supposed to help you? What in that entire situation would've been a gain for you? Because I go through that night again and again in my head," he said, leaning forward, "And I can't figure it out."  
"Keep trying there Stanford, you're a smart boy, you'll figure it out."

"Well, now that you mention it, I do have a theory," he snapped, glaring at her, "The funny thing about all of that is...you know angels can bounce at any given moment. You knew that as soon as Castiel sniffed trouble, he could be out of there in a split second. But you sent me in there. You sent me out of the line of fire to get Dean. You were trying to help us get away- and if we didn't stop and trap Crowley, if we hadn't been prepared, you'd be dead. So the way I figure it- you were ready to die for someone. But it wasn't Cas."  
"Shut up," she said, "Sue me for not being the scummy bitch you expected me to be."  
"I didn't expect anything from you," he replied, "That's the thing about you, Meg. I never know what to expect. Dean, he expects the worst in everyone, and always in demons. But you have been the one throwing us curve balls from the beginning. Dean expects you to say no, and he expects you to turn on us the first chance you get. And that's what I should expect.”

He watched as Meg’s jaw twitched with anger, her arms folded across her chest and staring straight ahead like he wasn’t next to her.

“But every time I think I know what you're gonna do, you turn heel and do the opposite. So, I'm gonna take a chance. You remember how you were betting on me?" He reached over, picking up the handcuffs and throwing them to the floor with a clatter, "Fine. It's my turn to lay a bet. And I'm laying it on you."

She looked at the cuffs on the floor, then back at Sam, like she couldn’t believe he’d just unchained her.  
"No more cuffs?" she asked suspiciously.  
"No more cuffs."  
"And I’m free to move about the cabin?"  
"Common areas, yeah. Anywhere else, I'll go with you."  
"And in exchange for that, I have let you make me human.”  
“That’s it.”  
“That’s it,” she snorted, “Yeah. That’s just it,” she let out an irritated bark of a laugh, snapping her fingers, “Just like that, huh. ‘Here, I’ll let you have your freedom. I’m just going to completely change the core of your being.’ That’s it.” Sam sighed, shaking his head. If he couldn’t just talk her into it, Sam wasn’t above a little manipulation.

“Dean said you wouldn’t do it,” he said nonchalantly, “I guess he was right.” He could feel her glare, see it out of the corner of his eye. She was smart, she was powerful, but she also wasn’t above falling into a pissing contest with his brother.  
“Oh did he,” she snapped.  
“Yup,” Sam said.  
“So what exactly happens if I say no to you?” She asked, folding her arms and looking up at him, “What then?”

It was a turn that Sam didn’t expect, and the words came out before he could think.

“What usually happens then?”  
“Someone in your Mickey Mouse club tries to stick me and leave me to die.”  
“Guess that’d be a reasonable guess of what happens if you say no, then.”  
“Wow. And here, everyone is under the impression that Dean’s the calloused asshole,” she said, raising an eyebrow.

“I asked you,” he replied, shrugging as if it didn’t bother him that his default response to her was ‘Do what I want or I’ll kill you’. He didn’t want to admit that when it had come out of his mouth, he’d felt nothing. No remorse, no guilt. It wasn’t until she responded, until she’d called him a calloused asshole, that the weight of his words hit him.  
“And when you didn’t get what you wanted, you threatened me,” she said, staring him evenly in the eye, “You boys say we’re so different, but we’re a lot more alike than you’re willing to admit to yourselves.”

Sam shifted uncomfortably under her sharp gaze, breaking eye contact with her.

“Well, I’m asking again,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets, “Will you?”  
She shrugged, her hands waving.  
“Well, what choice have I really got, Gigantor?” she said, “Fine. I’ll do it.” She looked away, a lost expression on her face, “No demons on earth sounds good to me.”  
“Okay,” Sam said slowly, “Okay, good.” She looked up, the expression gone.  
“It’s not that easy. I have a few requirements other than not being locked up like a caged rat," she said with a smirk, "And one of them is a box of fucking Garnier. I hate being a fucking blonde."

* * *

 

"Tying me in pretty tight, huh?" she said, struggling a bit against the binds that were holding her, "The decrepit church is a nice touch. Almost poetic, really. You Winchesters do have a flair for the dramatic."  
"Shut up, Meg," Dean snapped.  
"Oh, sorry Honey Boo Boo, did I hurt your feelings? Think I have the right to a bit of snark before I go through 8 hours of intense torture before leading a happy 40 or so years of slow torture," Meg replied, looking over at Sam and winking, "You ready to do this, hot stuff? I'm not getting any human-er just strapped in like like I'm about to go to the moon.”

Sam looked from her to Dean, nodding.  
"Just gotta get a few things, and then we're ready to start. Dean?" Sam said, walking past her and touching her shoulder gently, before walking out the door.

Meg turned her head, waiting until they walked out before struggling as hard as she could against the ropes that were holding her, thrashing a bit.  
"Fuck," she whispered, stopping after realizing how futile it was, tipping her head back and looking up, "Well, if this isn't some sort of punch line to the bad joke of my existence, I don't know what is," she chuckled, "From Lucifer's bitch to Lucifer's vessel's bitch. I'm getting a little bit tired of this game," she said to no one, "Is there any length I won't go to? No, probably not. Though the syringes and bondage are a surprise."  
She stopped talking as Sam re-entered behind her, kneeling in the small confessional and closing the door behind him.

"Okay, um..." Sam began, clearing his throat, "If anybody's listening, here goes.

I...I'm sorry for everything. I mean, everything. For the demon blood, for falling for Ruby's lies, for killing Lilith and raising Lucifer, for leaving Dean in Purgatory and running out on Amelia. I'm sorry for leaving Dean when he needed me; and leaving Dad when he needed me. I'm sorry for letting Jessica die and for dragging her into this whole fucked up world when she didn't...she didn't even know...I'm sorry for Mom... so so fucking sorry..." he paused, his voice faltering, "I'm sorry for being so dark, so fucked up, so...so dirty. I...I never wanted to be. I always tried not to be, but I guess I could never stop it. But I can apologize for it. I can make it right. So please, whoever is listening, if anyone would be listening to...to someone like me, can you forgive me? So that maybe...maybe there can be one good thing I can do before I die? I don't wanna die and leave my brother stuck with the memory of me being...being the freak, the fuck up. I want him to remember something good, something worthwhile. And I can't do that without someone up there forgiving me." He stopped, looking down, "I don't know how to end this. Thank you? Yeah, I guess that's about right...thank you."

He stood, stepping out of the confessional with a soft sight, catching sight of Meg trying to look at him.

"Sam," she began, only to be cut off.  
"Like you said," he replied with a weary smile, "What happens in Vegas, right?"  
Meg turned to face forward as he walked out of the church, muttering, "If Vegas were a dilapidated church where someone was about to get tortured and someone else just asked for forgiveness for a bunch of things that weren't even his fault, then sure, what happens in Vegas."  
“What do you care if I apologized for things you don’t think are my fault?” Sam asked firmly. Meg laughed.  
“Trust me Sammy,” she said, “When you live the life I have, you get pretty good at picking out the guilty ones from the crowd.”  
“Oh yeah?” Sam said with a smirk, “And you think I’m not guilty?”  
“I know you’re not,” she said simply, facing forward once more.

The conviction in her voice made Sam’s heart leap into his throat- Meg didn’t ever just say things. From the beginning, he learned that just about every time she opened her mouth, she was telling the truth, at least in part. And in the face of her last remark, well, he didn’t know how to feel about that.

She could hear Castiel and Dean talking, jerking at her bonds once more. Sam raised an eyebrow as she came to life, rage radiating off of her. She wasn't kidding about being pissed that he'd just up and left her- left them. He turned and descended the stairs to see if Cas could help, Meg's raving crystal clear even through the heavy door.

“You grace filled piece of shit!” She yelled, “You fucking prick! You left them, you left me! I swear, I will kick your ass, you featherbrained asshat!”  
“Shut up, Meg!” Dean yelled from outside as she bucked harder, making the chair rattle against the floor.  
“You shut the fuck up Neanderthal, I was talking to the dildo with wings!” she yelled, “Come in here and face me you useless fucking pawn!”  
“Meg, you’re angry,” she heard Cas’s gravelly voice call out.  
“Damn fucking right I’m angry, skippy!” she hollered, “Your job was to make sure they were safe, you selfish little halo fucker, and lo and behold, you couldn’t do something as fucking shit simple as that!”  
“Sam and Dean are fine,” Cas yelled irritably, “I have other-“  
“Don’t fucking use that tone with me!” she snapped, “When this is over you’d better have a good fucking excuse for that bunch of horseshit!”  
“I had to protect the tablet.”  
“You had to- are you shitting me? Are you seriously fucking shitting me. I’m gonna-“

“Meg!”  
Meg turned her head around to see Sam standing in the doorway.  
“Meg,” Sam said gently, “I’ll deal with this. Just relax.”  
She glared sharply at him.  
"Seriously," he said, "I'll deal with it."  
“Fine,” she muttered as he stepped out again, closing the door behind him.

She strained to hear the remnants of conversation between the angel and the two men, to no avail. She then heard Sam and Dean talking, barely making out their words before the flutter of wings came and went, leaving her and Sam alone.

He walked back in, circling her and checking her bindings carefully. He slipped a finger in between her wrist and the cuffs, nodding to himself.  
“I don’t want them too tight,” he said quietly as he continued to check the restraints, “Just enough that if you lose control-“  
“I won’t.”  
“Just…if,” he said firmly, looking her in the eyes, “I know you’re doing this willingly, but you may not have control later.”  
“Willingly? Yeah, okay.”  
“Fine, not completely willingly.”  
“Lesser of two evils, really,” she replied.  
"I know this is gonna hurt you," Sam said quietly, "If it's any consolation, it's probably gonna hurt me too."  
She glared at him, her jaw twitching.  
"You think I'd be sitting in this chair if I wanted to see you hurt?" she demanded, "Don't insult me."  
“You do care.”  
“Fuck off, Moose.”  
Sam grimaced at Crowley’s nickname for him, turning to the altar where the packages of syringes were laid out. He took a deep breath, bracing himself. He hated needles, but here he was, needing to take his own blood. He didn’t even really know-  
"Try a belt," Meg said, "Wrap it around your upper arm, flex a few times, jab yourself, and then take it off. It'll fill the syringe more easily.”  
Sam looked back at her, smirking.  
"Thought you said you didn't care," he joked. She stared back at him evenly.  
"Thought you said I did."

Sam looked down, biting his lip.  
"Thanks for the tip."  
"Stay all night and I'll give you the whole thing," she joked, tipping her head back, "Send me to the moon, baby."  
She watched as he drew the blood, walking over to her with it clutched in his hand. She felt her whole body abuzz with nervousness, her heart racing.  
"I have to inject you in the neck," he said, gently tipping her head to the side, "On three. One-"

He jabbed it in her neck, pressing the plunger and pulling it out quickly. She let out a small grunt, her teeth gritted against the pain. Well, that didn’t seem hard at all.

"I don't know what's worse," she muttered, "The needle or the blood. So, now what?"  
"We wait," he repeated, turning to the altar again.  
“Great, I hate waiting,” she said jokingly. Sam looked over the altar at all the tools he might need during the ritual; suddenly letting out a gasp of pain as his arms began to glow.  
"Sam?" Meg called over to him, "What's happening?" He pulled his sleeves down hastily, turning to her.  
"Nothing."

* * *

 

It was almost time for the 4th injection, and Meg was keenly aware of the fact that the first three hurt, now was the turning point. The point in which hurting became torture. She looked at Sam, his face looking pinched and in pain, leaning heavily against the altar.

“You look like you went a few rounds with a bear, kid,” she said with a smirk. Sam raised an eyebrow, chuckling.  
“You don’t look much better,” he replied.  
“Oh bite me, Winchester,” she replied with a laugh, her head tipping back. They both jumped at the ground rattled and shook, the trap drawn on the wood planks splintering.

“Are you-“ Sam began.  
“It’s not me, Sam,” Meg said, shaking her head.

Suddenly the doors burst open, a shadowy figure moving into the light.

"Hello Boys," Abaddon said with a grin, looking around, “Or- just one boy.”  
"I’d know that voice anywhere," Meg snapped from her place, bound to the chair, "Abaddon? I heard you were dead.”  
"So not."  
"And where's the rest of the rats, they scurrying in behind you?" Meg spat. Abaddon laughed, shaking her head.  
"Oh no. It's just little, old, unkillable me," she replied. Sam had stumbled back against the altar, his hand scrambling for his gun. Before he could reach it, Abaddon used her power to throw Sam across the room, into the church wall. He let out a loud groan, sliding down the wall.  
"Stop!" Meg yelled, struggling against her binds as Abaddon smirked, "Don't!" Sam groaned, moving to stand and fight. He rounded her again, crouched down like he was going to run at her at any moment.  
"What is this measly little human to you?" Abaddon asked, looking at Meg curiously, "You never were soft, you were trained too well, but 60 years I’m gone and suddenly it's 'Stop, don't'?" Abaddon flicked her wrist, sending Sam through the window that was behind him. Meg let out a short shriek, thrashing against the rope.  
"I'll fucking rip you to shreds," she screeched, "He had better be alive or I swear death will be the least of your fucking concerns."

"Now that's the girl I used to know," Abaddon replied, turning to face her with a smirk, punching her.  
"Do you know what I find the most shocking about time-traveling through a closet and landing in the year 2013?" she asked, punching Meg repeatedly before the chair fell over, slamming Meg's face against the floor.  
"Apparently, someone thought making Crowley, a fucking salesman, the king of hell was a good idea, and his competition is you!" She kicked the chair over so Meg was facing up, bending over her.  
"I gotta say, I'm a little disappointed. But, I'm gonna give you the benefit of the doubt. Maybe you just weren't trying; maybe you weren't putting out the effort. I can't imagine that he'd still be alive if you had been."  
"Bite me," Meg wheezed, smiling up at Abaddon, "I have no fucking interest in Hell. Tried being a queen once, didn’t sit well with me. You can take it."  
"Oh yeah, I remember that," Abaddon said, tapping her lip, “How did that work out for you, anyways? I was just there for the aftermath. How is the family? Oh wait- I remember. They’re dead. And you guys lost the war, and then you were tortured for a few hundred years.”  
Meg closed her eyes as Abaddon spoke, gritting her teeth.  
“You’re right. You were bad at being a queen. So, not that I needed permission,” she continued, winding her foot back and kicking Meg in the head, knocking her unconscious, "But thanks."

Abaddon let out a hiss as she turned to see Sam throwing oil on her, smirking.  
"I love the suit," he said, striking a match and pitching it at her. She burst into flames, her unearthly screams and howls filled the church as she smoked out of her body and out the window, leaving them both in the deathly quiet.

"Meg!" Sam yelled, running over and picking her up. She let out a loud groan, finally gaining consciousness.  
"Well, its been a while since I've been to church, but I don't remember that being a part of Mass," she mumbled, looking at Sam, "You okay there, big guy?"  
"I'm fine, I'm fine," Sam muttered, looking her over, "How did she know we were here...and how did she know you?"  
"No loyalty amongst scum sucking bastards," Meg slurred, "My guess is she's already got Crowley right where she wants him, which is either dead or by the nads, and now she came to eliminate her next threat."  
"You're a threat? To a knight of hell?" Sam asked.  
"Oh yeah, I’m just hell in trendy boot style heels. I used to be everyone's worst nightmare, especially after Abaddon disappeared," Meg replied, "Until I met you, then I was always running after you two denim clad pinheads, saving your asses and cleaning up your messes. I’m one of the strongest demons still alive, the head honcho, the grand fucking poobah. Now I'm freely giving up all that demonic power. What the hell did you do to me?"

"I'm sorry," Sam said as he turned to the altar, prepping the next syringe. They both knew he wasn’t actually sorry- but he knew she wasn’t aware of the real reason why he wasn’t. In his mind, this would be the best thing that could happen to her- being human would give her a second chance at humanity, a second chance at life. She could be with Cas, hell, she could be with anyone. She could have a whole new life, and maybe, when she died, she could be at peace. Sam didn’t want to admit it, but Meg wasn’t the only one who learned a lot while they were sharing headspace. He knew she just wanted to be at peace.

"Don't apologize for things you aren't sorry for," she wheezed, squirming in wide eyed fear as he turned to her, "It's not attractive."

Sam smiled, picking up the spray can and shaking it as he redrew the devil's trap. She let out a relieved sigh, her whole body relaxing.

"Still don't trust me?" she asked, watching him as he redrew the trap with practiced ease. He shook his head.  
"I think I trust you more than I've trusted anyone in a long time," Sam replied, looking over his work, "This has nothing to do with trust. You might try to escape on instinct. I don't want that to happen, for both our sakes." She nodded, her head lulling to the side to expose her neck.  
“Well, hit me with your best shot,” she said softly, her face forced into an emotionless mask. He carried over the syringe, checking it once more.

“I think we’re past the ‘on three and then sticking me at one’ trick, don’t you?” she said with a weak laugh, “I think we’re there, Sam.”  
“You think?” he chuckled.  
“Yeah, considering everything, I think so.”  
Sam nodded pensively, looking at the syringe in his hand. He knew this was right, but he suddenly became keenly aware of how little he actually knew about her.  
“Meg?” he asked softly.  
“Yeah?”  
“What’s the first thing you’re gonna do when you’re human?”

She pursed her lips, thinking.

“I think the first thing I’ll do,” she said, “Is take a two hour bath with a bottle of vodka and a large stuffed-crust Hawaiian pizza. After that… stick around big guy, and you’ll find out,” she replied with a grin. Sam laughed, shaking his head.

“No, seriously,” Sam said, “I wanna know.”  
“Seriously?” she asked.  
“Seriously.”  
“Fine. I would breathe.”  
“Yeah, thanks, smartass,” Sam said, rolling his eyes. She looked up at him indignantly.  
“I’m being fucking serious. Breathing….it’s not like when you’re human. It almost feels like I’m constantly suffocating, because I don’t belong in a body. The first thing I would do is breathe.”

Sam nodded, reassured in her answer. If she was really, truly evil, he was sure that wouldn’t have been her answer. Of all the things to want, just wanting to breathe…

“Okay.”  
“Okay?”  
“Okay,” Sam said, plunging the syringe into her neck as she let out a strangled cry.

* * *

 

Sam was feeling more exhausted than he’d ever been as he sat heavily on the edge of the altar, wincing in pain as his hand pressed against the bandage around his arm. The Trials were killing him, he’d figured that much out, and he knew that after he purified Meg, he’d be dead. He knew it in his gut since Kevin had told them about them. He wasn’t an idiot- he knew that these kinds of trials are for penance, the end being death. He wasn’t kidding when he told Dean that the trials were purifying him. He could feel it- his whole being getting lighter, the darkness inside of him shrinking. He knew it ended in death, but after doing this, he knew he’d go to heaven. That was the whole point of the trials, wasn’t it?

He looked over at Meg, who looked nothing short of harrowed. Her whole body seemed limp- she almost appeared dead, other than the telltale lolling of her head every few seconds.

“Meg, you okay?” Sam called out weakly.  
“I’m peachy keen, jelly bean,” she replied, “Y’know. Just buckling under the torture at this point, I don’t even have any witty comebacks.”  
Sam nodded heavily, trying to conserve as much of his energy as possible. He laid across the step he was sitting on, staring up at Meg’s face, which was pale and drawn.  
"Can I ask you something? Oh, fuck it. Why are you doing this?" she asked softly, looking at him through heavy-lidded eyes, "Why are you killing yourself for me? For the whole world? What have any of us done for you?"  
"I could give a list of things you've done for us," he replied, chuckling a bit, "And the rest of the world doesn't owe me anything. I owe them. I almost destroyed the world with my stupidity."  
"That was an accident."  
"An accident caused by my stupidity."  
"And Dean accidentally broke the first seal," she said, "So why is it that he's righteous...and somehow you're still dirty?"  
"I don't know," Sam replied, shaking his head, "That's the way it is."

"How do you have faith in something that doesn't even believe in you?" she asked, "When has anything ever given you the idea that God is this benevolent, loving figure that you should sacrifice everything for? Or- you know, humanity for that matter?"  
“What would you know about God?” Sam demanded.  
“You forget that I served Lucifer faithfully for centuries. Anyways, I was human once. I believed in something once. Then you know, God? He did nothing but destroy my life. It’s his fault I’m the way I am now. Never understood people who believed in God, well, that God. You think a deity that created you gives a single fuck what you humans do? God doesn’t even give a shit about his angels, what makes you think he cares about you? And what makes humans arrogant enough to believe that said deity would spend his days listening for your prayers and requests and praises, and what would make a deity so pathetic and dependent on lesser beings?”  
“Because he’s a father,” Sam said simply, “I have to believe that no matter how many failings he has, that in the end he’ll be there for the important stuff.”  
“What, like your dad?”  
“Maybe,” Sam said softly, shrugging, “Dad was there when we really needed him to be.”

“Oh yeah, and all those other times he was nowhere to be found, or that time you got into college and he kicked you out and disowned you, those weren’t important.”  
“To someone like you, they wouldn’t be,” Sam said, “What would you care what I think of my dad?”  
“Because he was a piece of shit, lower than me and the other demons,” she yelled, suddenly coming to life, “And coming from me, you know they have to be particularly shitty for me to think they’re less than me. You defending him just makes you keep up with this stupid belief that you have to fucking pay for something! Like somehow, just by existing, you’re a black stain on earth! Actually, I’m not sure if I pity you for hating yourself so much, or if I pity you for being arrogant enough to believe that your existence makes that much of a fucking difference!”

Sam stared at her with disbelief, glaring at her. The fucking nerve.

“Oh, and you’re one to talk.”

“You’re right, I am!” she snarled at him, the whole chair stuttering forward as she jerked towards him, “I am one to talk, because when you spend all your fucking time listening to and waiting for and believing in gods, everything you fucking love dies! You think they’re gonna help, but they fucking don’t, and then that’s it! Everything you love is gone!”  
“Is that what happened to your family?” Sam asked, looking at her seriously, “You believed in your god and your family was killed?”  
“What the fuck does that have to do with anything?” she demanded, “I have no idea what you’re talking about!”  
“You told me you’re one to talk. Who was your god, huh? Lucifer?”  
“Fuck you!” she spat at him, “Fuck you and fuck Lucifer too!”  
“You said it yourself, you served Lucifer for centuries, Azazel too. He called you his daughter. Was that how you learned? When we killed your whole family trying to stop Lucifer?”  
“You’re so fucking cute when you think you’re right and you’re not,” she replied with a sneer, “Try again after another round of blood transfusion. Maybe I’ll be squishier then.”  
“Fine,” Sam snapped, pulling himself to his feet, “I’ll try again then.”

He stumbled up to the altar, gripping the edges as a dizzy spell hit him hard. He felt his knee suddenly go weak, barely catching himself from falling.  
He grabbed the syringe and pushed it into his arm, a rush of adrenaline kicking his system into overdrive. He strained up fully, facing Meg while pulling the syringe from his arm.

“That’s the difference between you and me, Meg, that you can’t afford to have faith anymore. And maybe it’s the only thing that you can choose to do now to help yourself. Try believing in something greater than a cause.”  
“And what then? What happened to you happens to me? Why would you even have faith in anything, after everything?”  
"That's the thing about faith," Sam said gently, standing over her, "You don't know why you have it. You just do."  
She looked up at him, nodding.  
"I think I’m starting to get that."  
"Yeah?" he asked.  
"Yeah, it’s like a 12-step program," she replied, watching the needle, "Why else would I be here?"

* * *

  
By the seventh syringe, both he and Meg were not in good shape. Meg, around a half hour after the sixth syringe, seemed to have gone into a delirium, her head tipped back as she stared at the ceiling, scraps and snippets of pleas and cries hanging around Sam, as he tried to hold himself together. Most of Meg’s rambling had been in another language, a language he didn’t understand at all. Usually he could at least place a language, but he had no clue what she was speaking- it definitely wasn’t a modern human language, it wasn’t Enochian, it wasn’t Latin either- and whatever she was saying, she’d go from wailing in grief to screaming in anger. Her body was thrashing, and a few times he was scared by the idea that she may have been having a seizure.  
But then it all stopped and her body went slack again, the screaming and the wailing over with, replaced with soft whispers.

“Did..did you know I was...I was a princess once,” she mumbled, “What a useless thing to be. A princess.”  
“You were a princess?” Sam asked, his voice sounding thin and pinched.  
“Oh yeah,” she said, her head lolling, “Prettiest princess of my time, if I do say so myself."  
“I could imagine that,” Sam said with a shallow laugh, his body heaving, “Prettiest princess of your time, huh? What time was that?”  
“Biblical,” she laughed, “I was a much better queen than I was a princess. I always do better when I have the power. I just always end up fucking it up when I get to the end.”  
“You don't have any power right now,” Sam said quietly, “And you’re doing pretty good.”  
“Just look at me. I just told you I was a princess, one upon a time, and a pretty one at that. How disgustingly sentimental and unlike me.”  
“You always were sentimental. You just never wanted to admit it.”  
“Shut up,” she gasped, letting out another raspy laugh, “I've never experienced pain like this. And I've felt a lot of pain.”

Sam laid back against the stairs, lifting an eyebrow.

“Tell me about it.”  
“My pain? Why, ain't this amount of pain getting you off?” she spat at him.  
“No,” Sam said, waving her off, “Not the pain. What it was like when you were human. Did you have a family, a kid?”

She squeezed her eyes shut, letting out a low, tortured moan. It all came back in a flood, all the things she refused to remember, all the things she'd stashed far beneath the smoke and muck that she was.

“No, no,” she cried, dissolving into the language she had been speaking earlier, her sobs turning into wails.  
“Calm down,” Sam said gently, standing up, “Meg, just calm down…”  
“No!” She screeched, rocking the chair so hard it threatened to tip over, “No! You let me go, you let me go right now!”  
“Meg, stop!” Sam yelled, grabbing the chair over her wrists, holding her there with his face practically against hers.  
“No you stop!” she yelled back, “You stop it, with your blood and your questions and your lies!”  
“What lies?” Sam demanded, looking at her, their cheeks almost slammed together.  
“I know your heart! I know what you hide inside, I've been inside that walking talking corpse of yours!”

Sam let go of her, his chest heaving in fear. It was a primal fear he couldn’t control- he knew she would never possess him again, and anyways, she wouldn’t be able to- and he felt the room spinning.  
Out of control again.

“You want me to justify this self-righteous suicide, but you won’t get rid of your guilt by putting it on me! I had a chance to be human and I blew it, what makes you think I wouldn’t fuck it up this time?”  
Sam stood up fully, sighing loudly.  
“Because,” he said slowly, “You forgot that you were in my head. That means I saw things you didn’t want me to. And what I saw is that if I give you this chance, you’re gonna do it right. And you showed me that you’re capable of good-you always knew what good was, you know right and wrong- and while that makes all the evil before worse, it also makes all the good all the better. You will get it right this time. I have faith in you.”  
“Then don’t!” she hissed, her head hanging as her shoulders shook slightly, “Don't believe in something like me, Sam. You shouldn’t be doing this, it’s not fucking worth it. The world isn’t worth you.”  
Sam laughed sadly, shaking his head.  
“You’re wrong,” Sam said firmly, “The world, or me? It’s not a question.”  
“It should be,” Meg murmured breathlessly, “It shouldn’t be a no brainer.”  
“Well, it is,” Sam sighed, shuffling over to the altar and drawing out the last syringe. He lifted the syringe to put it in his arm, nearly missing as she began to cry.

"Please, no more Sam, I can't do it, I'm not strong enough," she whimpered, "I can't, Sam, I can't. You bet on the wrong horse. Just kill me."  
"Come on Meg, don't quit," Sam said, withdrawing the syringe," Don't quit, not yet. We're so close, you can do this."  
"I can't," she cried, “Sam, I can’t be human, I can’t, I can’t.”  
"You've been through hundreds of years of torture, you faced Crowley and survived, you can do this Meg, come on," he said frantically, "Come on, do this...what about breathing? Focus on that. Focus on what breathing is gonna feel like.”  
"Breathing," she muttered deliriously, "This is my _kaphar_ for the garden."  
"What? I don’t know what that is. What garden?"  
“The garden! The garden, he was stoned, we took the garden and that’s why they died, Sam, it was my fault, I killed them!”  
“Come on, Meg.”  
"I've killed so many people, Sam," she whispered, "I've hurt so many people. I've hurt you."  
"That doesn't matter anymore, okay? None of that matters, all that gets washed clean tonight, for both of us."  
"Don't die on me," she whispered, pressing her head against his forehead, "If I can't die, you can't either. Don't die on me," she cried softly, as he held her, their foreheads pressed together, "I have faith in you, Sam. Don't make me lose my faith again."

Her plea was so poignant in a way that Sam couldn’t articulate, yet it was powerful enough to give him pause. His mind wasn’t firing, not totally- at that point, he felt like nothing but pure instinct. The vulnerability in her voice triggered something inside him that he had never actually felt around her before. He felt the need to reach out to her, comfort her. He couldn’t help himself, hand on the side of her head, pressing his lips to her forehead as he pushed the penultimate needle into her neck.  
"I've got you," he whispered "I've got you, Meg. I've got you."

* * *

 

"This is it," Sam said, "You ready?"  
Meg was slumped in the chair, now indeed looking lifeless, her eyes half open and bloodshot. She had cried about the garden, whatever garden it was, for the whole hour- the garden, and the people who died. Sam had no clue what on earth she was talking about- she didn’t seem like the type of demon like Crowley, who had posh pieces of real estate everywhere. What would a garden matter to her? And why would people die because of it? There were names too, he could tell they were names, but he couldn’t completely make them out.  
Her family, maybe.  
He had no idea what to make of it all, really. Some part of him was fascinated by this side of her, by what he had gathered about her from her delirious rambling. When he started this, she was still just Meg- frenemy, wild card, demon. But as the blood loosened her tongue, Sam realized that all those snippets of memories, those things he knew about her, his pity for her made him feel guilty for her pain- moreso than he ever imagined. After the last hour, Sam knew- he’d picked the right demon to make human. One who had so much pain. One who lost so much in their human life- whatever it was she lost. One who had tried to be good despite it being her nature to be evil. He’d picked right. In fact, the more he thought about it, he was almost more satisfied with the thought of her redemption than the idea of shutting the gates to hell. No one saved him. He’d save her, though. He wouldn’t leave her to struggle, not anymore. Not like everyone else had left him. He looked over at her, picking up the knife in his hand.

"Don't," she whispered, "Don't, don't do it, you're killing yourself..."  
Sam shook his head, "It doesn't matter, not anymore."  
"It does matter!" she yelled, "Don't you make me human and leave me here alone, don't do that to me!"  
He shook his head, letting out a loud breath as he began to chant the words from the book to finish the purification. Meg started to shake in her seat, struggling against the bindings.

"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus,”Sam began, his breath growing labored,”Hanc animam redintegra, lustra," he finished, tossing the book aside. He let out a loud groan of pain as he sliced open his palm, the orange glow appearing in his hand.  
“Sam, stop,” Meg yelped, “Sam-Sam!”  
"This is it," he whispered, lifting his palm to press it against her mouth, "This is it."  
She tasted the metallic tang of his blood only for a moment, before she heard Dean’s voice, and her world went fuzzy.

"Sammy, stop!"

* * *

 

She sat slumped in the chair, not struggling as she heard it all.

 _What’s happening?_  
_The angels... they're falling..._

Sam yelling out in pain, gasping in terror.

_Sam! Sam, don't, Sammy, come on little brother, you're fine, I stopped you, we stopped this! You're gonna be okay, Sammy, wake up....Sam!_

She wondered if that one drop of blood was enough to complete the trial- but she still couldn’t breathe like a human, and she was still strapped to the chair. No, he couldn’t have done it. But…did that mean he was dying anyways? Well, if that wasn’t a cruel irony, she didn’t know what was.

_Fuck, fuck, Sam! Sam, wake up, come on…_

She could hear the pain in Dean’s voice, the shuffling of him lifting Sam. She listened to the heavy click and creak of the Impala door opening, then the slam of it closing.  
“Dean?”  
She heard his footsteps, the door opening behind her. She tried to turn her head around, but it was too heavy. She could feel him standing behind her, just staring at her.  
“Dean, where’s Sam?” she croaked, “Is he okay?”  
There was no response other than the creaking sound of his weight on the old floor.  
"Where's Sam?" she whispered as Dean came around in front of her, hacking away the bindings, "Where's Sam? Where's Sam..."  
“Shut up,” Dean whispered back, as if this place were truly consecrated ground to him, as if his voice yelling inside this space now was sacrilegious. He finally cut away all the straps and ropes and she stumbled to her feet, across the floor.  
“Sam,” she mumbled, leaning all her weight against the door frame, staring out at the Impala. She turned back to Dean, her hair falling over her face.  
“But he didn’t finish it,” she said, “I’m not…”  
Dean looked away from her, shaking his head. She stumbled out the door and to the Impala, pressing her head against the window, her palm splayed out against the glass.  
"Sammy..." she began, “I told you, why didn’t you listen…” She slapped her palm against the glass, her grief turning to rage, “You weren’t supposed to do this…you said you wouldn’t…fuck you!”

She slammed both her palms off the window, his lifeless body jammed into the back seat, “Fuck you, Sam Winchester, you stupid…you…” she sank down to her knees, pressing her forehead against the cool metal of the door, her fingers digging in the dirt and gravel in the ground.  
She let out an inhuman scream, Dean’s hands clapping over his ears as she rocked, screaming. The sounds sounded like gibberish, but she knew what they meant. It was a lament for lost ones, lost children. Because no matter how old he was, he was but a child to her in so many ways, a silly, trusting child. It was a grief she hadn’t felt in centuries, a grief she thought she had buried deep inside herself. But suddenly it had bubbled back to the surface, melding with her grief for the younger Winchester. There was nothing mild or attractive about her tears, the way she cried out, her voice cracking again and again.  
She slapped her palms off the ground, wailing as if she were mourning in her original time, smearing dirt across her face.  
Dean didn’t know what to make of it- half of him thought the demon had gone mad. She was screaming gibberish and slapping the ground and rubbing dirt over her face and acting like a lunatic. He had no idea that this was what he’d have to deal with- he knew he needed to get this done quick so he could get Sam to a hospital.

She felt Dean’s hand on her shoulder, making her wails soften a little. She didn't even hear the swing of the pipe when he smacked her across the head, and the world went black.


	2. Chapter 2

She woke up in pitch darkness, her panic kicking in. She thrashed around, only to find that she was gagged, with the special handcuffs around her wrists and ankles. Why was she here?

 _Oh yeah._  
Sam tired to make her human, and killed himself in the process.  
Dean knocked her head in with a pipe.  
He must've shoved her in the trunk for something to take his emotions out on later.

She jumped as a loud thud jolted her to the present, her body steeled for attack, but none came. The trunk didn't even open.

“You still alive in there, bitch? Once for yes, twice for no,” Dean yelled, his voice muffled. She stomped against the side of the trunk twice in annoyance, like she was gonna answer and be serious that she wasn’t alive.  
“Good. Sammy’s in a bad way, and you’re gonna use your demon bitch powers to save him,” He continued. She stomped twice, panic surging through her. She couldn’t save Sam, even if she wanted to. Even if it meant saving her life. She couldn’t help him.  
“What do you mean, no?” Dean demanded, slapping his palm against the closed hatch, “You won’t help him, even after all that?”  
She stomped twice.  
“So, you can’t help him?”  
She stomped once.  
“For fuck’s sake.”  
He yanked open the hatch and she was blinded by light, Dean’s figure and face becoming clearer through the fuzziness in her vision. She squinted up at him, trying to figure out where the fuck they were.

“You scream, I put you down,” he hissed, taking the gag out of her mouth, “Who can help him?”  
“An angel, maybe,” she said, “That was some serious moj-urmph!”  
Dean had shoved the gag back in and over her mouth, nodding.  
“Angel, got it,” he snapped in response, slamming the hatch down and throwing her into darkness.

* * *

  
She knew that considerable time had passed, but there was no way to know. In the dark, time seemed endless, she had firsthand knowledge. Five minutes felt like 5 thousand years. Nothing marks it's passage, or the lack of it's passage. It's just you and your thoughts and your demons.  
Good thing she was scarier than her demons.  
She just knew that she had heard a scuffle between Dean and someone else outside, and then…silence.  
It gave her time to focus on the steady effects of Sam’s blood fading away- she could feel her strength returning, her resolve. With each beat of her vessel’s heart, the memories that had sprung forth from the blood’s effects grew faded and fuzzy, the screams and voices she knew so well fading away behind the walls she had built so carefully so many years ago. She felt relief wash over her as the memories faded, finally able to focus on something other than them.

She knew that whatever happened to Sam, it was killing him, and there was no way that any mojo she had could help him. She knew that not even an angel could help him really- Cas had said so himself, before he went and fucked off and left her to clean up his mess. Not on the outside, not by just giving him the touched by an angel treatment.

_Unless…_

She heard voices outside, Dean and…Sam? She strained harder, trying to catch what she could of their conversation.

“So? How's it look in there?” she heard Dean ask.  
“Not good. There is much work to be done.”

What the hell? She knew Sam’s voice, and whatever was speaking sounded like him, but wasn’t him. She could also feel grace radiating off of one of them, enough to set her on high alert.

“Yeah, but he's gonna wake up, right?”  
“He will.”  
“So, what he does – what, is he gonna feel you inside, triaging his spleen?”  
“He will not feel me, no. There is no reason for Sam to know I'm in here at all.”

Meg started kicking rapidly at the side of the trunk, furious. Did Dean actually get an angel to possess Sam…without his knowledge? How the hell did that even work? Obviously, they both were ignoring her kicking.

“You're joking. No, this is – this is too big.”  
“And what will he do if you do tell him he is possessed by an angel?”

She wished that she didn’t have that fucking gag over her mouth, because that was just her question. Just what the fuck did he think Sam was gonna do if he found out there was an angel inside of him?

“Well, he'll have to understand.”  
“And if he does not? Without his acceptance, Sam can eject me at any time, especially with me so weak. And if Sam does eject me, he will die.”  
“Then we keep it a secret for now. Or until Sam's well enough that he doesn't need an angelic pacemaker or I find a way to tell him. I - I... As for him being in a hospital, I'll have to figure something out.”  
“I can erase it all, if you like. He will not remember any of this.”

Meg thrashed around in the trunk, pounding the side of it with her feet passionately. What the fuck kind of solution was this? Possess Sam with an angel and hope for the best? Hadn’t Dean seen exactly what trusting Angels got them? She heard his hand slam on the trunk, a key in the lock. He opened up the hatch as the not-Sam got in the car.

“Didn’t I tell you to keep quiet?” he demanded, “Here’s a trick you might know better, bitch. Play dead.”

She glared at him as he slammed the trunk closed again.

* * *

 

She squinted against the light as the trunk opened, jerking a bit. When her eyes finally focused, she saw Dean standing over her, a bag in his hand. He leaned forward, pulling the gag away from her mouth.

“You can scream all you like now. No one will hear you,” Dean said with a smirk. Meg huffed, tossing her hair out of her face.  
“Fuck me in the ass,” she said, looking up at him, “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to eat fast food or drink beer again, cause that’s all this thing smells like.”  
“Shut up,” Dean said with disgust, “God, I fucking hate you.”  
“You're so good at that. You practice on yourself in the mirror, don't you?” she replied cheekily. He slammed the bag in his hands down over her head, picking her up and tossing her over his shoulder. She let out a huff of air as she hit his shoulder hard, her body jackknifed over his body, her wrists still tied behind her back.  
“See, this is why I call you a fucking Neanderthal,” she remarked, “It’s really your own fault. If you didn’t act like such a knuckle dragger, I wouldn’t have anything to call you.”

He didn’t respond, and she felt as they descended to a door, and then descended again. She heard hesitant footsteps, and then Dean’s voice.  
“He okay?”  
“Yeah, he’s just lying down like you told him to,” Kevin’s voice replied, “Um…”

Meg had managed to shake her head enough to get the bag to fall off, getting blinded yet again. She looked around, huffing.  
“I know exactly where this stupid bunker is, why do you guys insist on putting a hood over my head? Oh, look, it’s Short Round. How’s it hangin, kid?”

Kevin jumped back, surprised to see her back at the Bunker- Sam had confided in him that the thought that she’d end up running off with Cas when she was human. But she was trussed up, clearly still a prisoner.

“He-He-Hey Meg,” Kevin said hesitantly, “Dean….should you be…is she dangerous?”  
“Relax, kid,” Meg said as Dean carried her past him, “I’m all trussed up and even then, I’ve busted my balls to keep you safe. Wouldn’t throw all that work away for the momentary pleasure of killing something.”

Kevin trotted along behind him, suddenly full of questions.

“Uh, Dean? Where are you taking her?”  
“Locking her up.”  
“What’d she do?”  
“She’s a demon, that’s good enough for me.”  
“But you guys kept her in a room before-“  
“We’re not doing that again. Too dangerous.”  
“Yeah but-wait, so she’s still a demon?”  
“Yup.”  
“What stopped Sam?”  
“Her.”  
“My sweet ass!” Meg scoffed, only to feel an angel blade pressed into her side.  
“You don’t shut up, I’m gonna finish what Crowley started.”  
“What does she mean?” Kevin asked, grabbing Dean’s arm, “Dean! What happened?”  
“Kevin. Relax.”  
“I can’t really relax when you’re not telling me what happened and you’ve got a demon who is supposed to be human by now all chained up over your shoulder with a knife at her side for disagreeing with your story!” Kevin exploded, “I think I’ve earned some answers here, dude!”

Dean turned around, his face twisted in anger.

“You want an answer? She attacked him, he got hurt, and now I’m locking her bitch ass up to keep an eye on her and make her translate shit because if I can’t kill her, I am sure as hell gonna make her be fucking useful!”  
“I didn’t fucking touch him, you lying pissrag!” Meg spat, bucking angrily, “I haven’t touched a hair on that fucking kid’s head- well, I haven’t in a long ass time! You, fuckwad, maybe, but not him!”  
“Dean…” Kevin began, following Dean down the stairs to the dungeon, “What-“  
“Kev, can you just give me a fucking second?” Dean demanded, yanking the door open and kicking it closed in Kevin’s face. He flicked on the lights, slamming Meg down into the chair in the middle of the devil’s trap.

Meg groaned a bit, staring at him as he chained her to the chair.

“Dean, Dean, Dean,” she tsked, “What the fuck have you done this time?”  
“Shut up, Meg.”  
“Ouch. You and I both know I didn’t fucking touch him, and that he was pretty fucked up. Too fucked up to get healed by normal angel mojo. So, I reiterate, what the fuck did you do?”  
“I did what I had to,” Dean snapped, “Not that you care.”  
“Cut me, do I not bleed, Pisschester,” she snapped back, “Give it to me straight, sporto. No one is stupid enough to exchange your shit-sorry soul for his life anymore, Cas is in the goddamn wind and…did I hear you say he was fucking human? So really. You had no options and you know it,” she paused, glaring at him, “Why is it that every one of Sam’s worst nightmares come true when you’re around?”  
“I don’t have to explain myself to you!”  
“But you do have to explain yourself to Sam,” she spat, “Or are you gonna hide this too?”  
“Shut up.”  
“I’m completely fucking disarmed by your witty retorts,” she snorted, rolling her eyes. Dean stood up, grabbing her face roughly and yanking her head back, angel blade pressed to her throat.  
“You’ve got my attention,” Meg said in a strained voice.  
“Good,” Dean replied, “Because you need to listen very carefully if you want to live.”  
“I’m listening intently.”  
“You’re gonna stay down here. I will bring you papers to translate, you translate them, and I’m gonna leave. And maybe, just maybe, when all of this is said and done, I’ll turn you loose.”  
“Awesome plan you smug little taint, but there’s just a little problem,” Meg said, “You need me, and I don’t want to talk to your knuckle dragging ass any more than fucking necessary. So, the only way you’re gonna get your precious fucking translations is if someone other than you brings ‘em down.” He pressed the blade harder against her throat, a rivulet of blood dripping down her neck, making her laugh.  
“Go ahead, kill me,” she said, “Fuck you and your fucking tablet- you think my life is that valuable to me? Please.”  
Dean leaned down, his voice rough and heavy in her ear.

“You remember that we trained under the same torturer, right?” He said softly, dragging the tip of the blade down her neck, “So I can get whatever I want out of you.”  
“Put your cock away, Dean,” she said with a smirk, “You might get all hot and bothered torturing me, but it’s not gonna do any-fucking-thing for me. You’re forgetting that you gave up after 40 years. I survived hundreds of years. You’d die of old age long before you’d get anything out of me that I didn’t want to give you,” she looked up at him, a smirk on her face, “So really, Dean? What do you do? Do you kill me and keep your secret safe, but lose any chance at translating the fucking Rosetta Stone, or do you keep me alive, have me translate, and risk me exposing your big, fat, juicy fucking lie? Because we both know you lied to Sammy. That’s your default setting, isn’t it? Lie, lie, lie like a fucking rug.”

Dean swore, throwing the angel blade across the room with a clatter.

“Anything you can do, I can do better,” she singsonged, “I can do anything better than you. Come on, let’s get a fucking Broadway show! We can call it ‘Sammy Get Your Gun- Cause Your Brother Fucked You Again.’ I can see it now- we’ll make millions.”

Dean turned away from her, slamming his fist into the wall. She watched him with a bored look on her face, before opening her mouth again.

“There’s only one reason I’m not gonna say anything,” she said, “And this is the only fucking reason- because if I tell Sam that you’re lying about how he’s up and walking- and yes, I know exactly how you did it- it’s only going to hurt him. And as long as I think you’re going to help him more than you’ll hurt him, then I’ll keep my trap shut. But trust me. The minute I think you’re fucking around, the minute I even sniff a hint of you putting your pathetic needs above his, and I will tell him. And he’ll unchain me, and then I’ll do something he’ll never fucking forgive me for. You got that, shitstain?”  
“You’re threatening me?” Dean scoffed, “That’s a good one.”  
“Killed bigger and scarier than you,” she replied, “And I did it just because. If I kill you, it’s gonna be personal.”  
“And why’s that?” Dean asked.  
“Because,” Meg said, leaning forward, “You never even got what my cause was after Lucifer. You thought you did, but no cigar. You thought I was bad when I was devoted to Lucifer? You think I’ve done all the things I’ve done for you because of that “the enemy of my enemy is my friend” horseshit? You think I’ve been tortured and almost died because I’m just such a nice fucking person? Demon, dipshit. You have no idea how far I’ll go now. I will be your singular worst fucking nightmare. You thought Azazel and Crowley were bad? I will haunt your every step for the rest of your pathetic and short life. You think you can fall in love? I will kill each and every one of them on the ceiling above your bed. I will cut off all joy and peace in your life. And I will fucking kill you.”

Dean turned away furiously, stomping towards the door. He paused when he heard her call out to him.

“Don’t fuck up- I’m not as forgiving as your brother is.”

* * *

 

She looked up as the door opened, her eyes zeroing in on the figure that was approaching before the lights snapped on. Too short to be a Winchester.  
“Hi, uh, Meg,” a hesitant voice called out.  
“Short Round! I’m glad that the Neanderthal actually listened to me,” she said, smirking, “So, what is it that a nice boy like you would want from a nasty old thing like me?”

Kevin looked around nervously, leaning forward and whispering.

“Is that uncomfortable?” he asked softly. She shrugged. She’d been chained tightly to the chair for about a week, and yes- it was horrifically uncomfortable. What a sweet kid, she thought to herself, you’re gonna get killed if you keep being so sweet.

“Not exactly a tempur-pedic, but I could be worse off,” she replied. Kevin gave her a skeptical look, shaking his head.  
“Yeah, okay,” he said, reaching in his jeans and pulling out a key. She raised an eyebrow at him, chuckling.  
“Well, color me shocked. Now how did you get that key?”  
“Dean’s not doin too great,” Kevin replied, “Drinking. A lot.”  
“Enough to pass out? Kid, you better make sure he ain’t dead.”  
“No, he just left his coat on the chair, and I grabbed the key. He put it back on and didn’t notice it was gone.”

Meg nodded slowly, eying the young man. There was more to the little prophet than met the eye.

“Then that brings us to the payment part of this transaction,” she said, “So, what do you want?”  
“I’m supposed to give you a note, and tell someone the response,” he said, shifting his weight back and forth, “It’s, um, important.”  
“So it’s from Sam.”  
“Uh, yeah. Here,” he said, holding out a folded up scrap of paper. She looked at it, then up at him.  
“You don’t know what it says?” she asked curiously.  
“I, uh, can’t read it,” Kevin said, rubbing his neck, “They didn’t teach Latin in my high school.”  
“Ahh, so you did peek,” she teased, “It’s fine, kid. Can ya open it and put it on the table?” she asked, jerking her wrists, “I’m still a bit tied up at the moment.”

Kevin laughed a little at her joke, unfolding the paper and sliding it across the table in front of her before unlocking her. She raised an eyebrow at the spidery script, half impressed at the perfect word usage and half impressed by the fact that Sam knew Latin outside of exorcisms.  
She scanned the paper quickly, looking back up at Kevin.  
“The answer is three yes’s,” she said, “Do you have a lighter?”  
“Um, yeah, actually,” Kevin said, patting his pockets, “Why?”  
“Burn it,” she said.  
“Why?”  
“Because I don’t want anyone to know about it.”  
“So…Dean?”  
“Bingo.”

Kevin sat down in the chair on the other side of the table, his back stiff, as if he were ready to bolt. She almost laughed- he looked like he'd just say on a damn pineapple.

“Why did you attack Sam?” Kevin asked, “I mean, you wouldn’t talk or cooperate with anyone but him last time you were here. I kinda got the feeling that you wouldn’t want to hurt him.”  
“What gave you that impression?” she demanded, her tone deadly soft.  
“Nothing, I’m probably wrong,” he said quickly, “But uh…y’know, why Sam?”  
“Well, as you probably heard, since I was being quite loud about it,” she said, leaning forward and putting a sweet look on her face, “On the count of assault and battery,” she continued, batting her eyes, “The defendant pleads not guilty, and requests that bail be lightened because the defendant is not a flight risk.”  
“What does that mean?”  
“Fuck me with a chainsaw, you never seen Law and Order? Where is Sam when I need him,” she muttered, “I didn’t do it, and even if I did, I wouldn’t be going anywhere, because hello? I leave a five fucking mile radius of Winchesters and suddenly there are ten thousand of those shiny fucking toothpicks up my ass. So really. Why the ever-loving fuck would I be scrambling to get out of here?”  
“That is a good point,” Kevin conceded.  
“Right? Plus, if I attacked Sam, would I look this pristine?” she asked, “Come on, I’ve seen civilians walk away with more damage than me. If I really attacked Sam, wouldn’t I be hurt?”  
“Yeah,” Kevin said slowly, nodding.  
“And one more point, might I add, that Sam, the person who I allegedly attacked? He just sent you with a message that was in a language that only he and I know. Would he be giving you secret messages for me if I attacked him?”  
“Okay, I’m convinced. But why would Dean lie?” Kevin asked, looking concerned. Meg shrugged.  
“Beats me, peewee,” she replied, giving him a wide eyed, innocent look. He scoffed, his nose wrinkling.  
“I know you know something about it. You always know what’s going on before anyone else.”  
“Trust me, kid. When it needs to come out, it’ll come out.”  
“I’m really not a kid,” Kevin said, “I am 19.” Meg laughed, tossing her head back.  
“I like you, tiny prophet. You got a lot of piss and vinegar in you, just like the rest of them.”  
“How old are you?” Kevin asked, leaning forward curiously.  
“Old enough to know a few prophets.”  
“Did you get along with them?” he asked, “I guess that’s a dumb question.”  
“Why? I think it’s a good one. I didn’t then, but in these circumstances, I get along with you. Then again, that might just be your winning personality,” she said with a grin, “Kick rocks in flip flops, kid. The walking taint is gonna wonder where you scurried off to without your hall pass.”

Kevin grinned at her, hopping off the table and heading towards the door. He paused, looking back at her.  
“Do you, uh, need anything?” he asked.  
“Yeah, make sure Sam gets my answer,” she replied. He nodded, turning off the light and walking out the door.  
“Catch ya on the flip side, Short Round.”

* * *

 

Sam took a deep breath, squeezing the empty syringe in his hand. He knew she had understood the note, and her answers hadn’t surprised him. He figured that if demon blood was like a drug for him, then maybe human blood was the same for her, and he was right.

_Are you craving the blood?_   
_Are you willing to do an exchange?_   
_Can I visit you?_

In the church, they had both shared secrets that were deep for them both, but they were shared on accident. He couldn’t really say that he’d actually shared anything that she didn’t know, because she had been inside him once upon a time, and she knew his deepest, darkest secrets. But he knew some of hers now- that she remembered- truly, deeply remembered- her life as a human, and that those memories caused her such a deep anguish. In the week since he woke up in the passenger’s seat of the Impala, every one of his dreams ended with loud, blood chilling screams and wails, words that sounded like the ones she had uttered in the church echoing in his mind. What had made that scream so frightening to him, though, was that he knew he’d heard it before, a long time ago. But he just couldn’t figure out where.

And he figured that she probably had something to do with it.

He opened the door, taking a deep breath before crossing the threshold. He felt like by talking to her, by even considering giving her his blood, that he was betraying his brother. He was crossing a line with a demon again, but he didn’t have a doubt in his mind on whether it was right or wrong. With Ruby, he’d known that he was doing something that wasn’t totally right, that he was pushing the limits of right and wrong, dancing in the fine gray area until he finally forgot that there was a line and ended up on the wrong side of it. But this time, he didn’t have that same unease, the battle inside himself. He didn’t even see this as being in a gray area. Meg, unlike Ruby, had proven time and time again- for a long time- that she was able and willing to do the right thing and be on the good side of the line. For all of her speeches about causes and moral impunity when it came to said causes, more often than not, they all found her stumbling on the good end of the spectrum. When he sat down and really thought about it- which he did, long and hard, he began to realize just how much the demon had done for him and his brother. Saved Dean’s life, helped Cas get his memory back and saved him from death by Halucifer, protected Cas, protected them more times than he could count; she was even willing to put her life on the line for them, with no benefit to herself than the empty satisfaction of knowing that they’d probably kill Crowley for some reason or another. Even in situations where giving Sam demon blood would’ve helped them all, she didn’t even suggest it, like Ruby always did. Meg hadn’t tried to tear him and his brother apart, and for the better part of four years, had done nothing but assist them in whatever they had going on that she got caught up in. He knew he was crossing a line, yes, but this was not like then, if not for any other reason than he was the one in control. For the first time in his life, Sam did not feel an ounce of guilt helping and associating with someone who was actually a something.  
Her voice drew him out of his thoughts, singing a song softly in the dark.

“When routine bites hard and ambitions are low,” she sang her head hanging limply, “And resentment rides high, but emotions won't grow….”

He flicked on the lights, closing the door behind him with a quiet click, locking the door.

“And we're changing our ways, taking different roads,” she continued as if he weren't there, lifting her chin, “Then love, love will tear us apart again.”  
“Joy Division,” Sam said with a soft snort, “Didn’t think you would be into them.”  
“I just find their lyrics abundantly applicable to a certain situation at the moment,” she replied with a mocking smile, “There’s just something about me, huh, Sam? Just can’t stay away, even if Dean-o tells you to.”

Sam laughed, shaking his head.

“Yeah, Meg,” he replied, his tone amused, “I don’t know what it is, I think it might be the constant insults that just keep me coming back for more.”  
“I always knew you were a masochist,” she replied, “But I know you didn’t come down here just to chit chat.”  
“You’re right,” he said, setting the empty syringe on the table, “I didn’t come to chit chat.”

She looked down at the syringe, her entire body stiffening, her blood pounding in her ears. She didn't know what she had been feeling for the past week or so until she saw that little empty tube, just waiting to be filled with his blood. She could feel herself almost fucking salivating at the thought of his blood, human blood, coursing through her body again.

“You little prick tease,” she said, her voice sounding tight, “Come on, I need it.”  
“I know you do.”  
“How did you know I was gonna crave it?”  
“I craved demon blood, why wouldn’t it be the same the other way around?” he replied, shrugging.  
“Clever boy.”  
He picked up the needle, feeling the intensity of her eyes on him as he pressed it into his arm.  
“I'll give you some,” He said quietly, drawing the blood from his arm, “But you have to do something for it.”  
“At the risk of sounding like a strung out junkie willing to do sexual favors for her next fix… anything.”

Sam watched her carefully, as carefully as he did in a poker game. He knew his hand was good, but he wanted to see if she realized that he knew. She was squirming, her eyes on the blood filled syringe with hunger in her eyes, her lip caught between her teeth. Oh yeah. She knew that he had the deck stacked in his favor.

“Tell me about what it was like when you were human.”  
“What is it with you and backstories?” Meg asked, smirking at him, “What, you need some more sadness in your life, need a past as pitiful as yours to latch onto, to make yourself feel better?”  
Sam sighed, shaking his head. For all of her cleverness, he realized that Meg had never quite figured out how to keep her poker face when it came to things she actually cared about. He knew that when the snark got going, he was hitting a tender subject. Or, Dean was around.

“Ruby remembered what it was like to be human, but she didn't remember her life as a human. Only how it felt,” he began, “You're ancient, you said so, you are biblical times ancient, and you remember, I know you do. I want to know why you remember.”  
“A cruel irony,” she replied, “Like your dependence on your brother. There. Question answered.”  
“Why do you say that?” He asked, looking interested.  
“What, you went to Stanford and they didn’t teach you what the fuck a cruel irony is?” she demanded, “Jesus Christ on the cross. When everything happens the exact opposite of the way any rational person would think it would happen, usually sad or strange, add your own adjective? Cruel Irony, in the dictionary is followed by a description of you and Dean’s relationship? Come on, Sam. Don’t be fucking obtuse.”  
“I’m not being obtuse,” Sam snapped.  
“You wouldn’t be angry with me if you weren’t,” she replied, “If that’s the only question you have, then I’m afraid this is gonna be a one hit wonder deal.”  
“That’s not my only question,” he replied, “I want to know what made you this way. I want to know what you were like before what this made you.”  
“I was just like this,” she said smugly, “Sorry to disappoint.”  
“I don't believe that.”  
“That's a shame for you.”  
“If you want the blood,” he said, patting the syringe, “Then you tell me the truth- or convince me that that's the truth- which you can't.”  
“You are a shithead, you know that?”  
“I’ve been told.”  
“I was a bad person, and now I’m a bad demon. A backstory isn’t gonna change what I am.”  
“I know that,” Sam replied, “It’s not about changing you. I want to know why you are the way you are. I want to know what made you…you.”  
“Why would you care?” Meg snapped.

Sam laughed a little, sitting back in the chair and folding his hands.

“Because I don’t get you,” he replied, “I’ve seen you do terrible, fucked up things. But then, I’ve seen you do some really good, selfless things. People don’t really swing between those extremes, not the way you have. I want to understand why.”  
“Because I’m a mysterious creature who cannot be so simply defined.”  
“I know,” Sam said, laughing, “That’s why I want you to tell me about who you were, and why you became what you are. I usually get people and their motivations. I get Dean, I get Cas, I get Kevin, I get Crowley. I get the angels, I get the demons. I don’t get you. And when I don’t understand something, it eats at me. That’s why I’m good at research. I don’t like not understanding things.”  
“At least you’re honest about that,” Me replied, glaring at him irritably and letting out a deep sigh.  
“This is a long one,” She said, “You have to listen to it all, even the boring bits. I’m not gonna tell half the story- it’s all important, even when it doesn’t seem like it.”  
“I have all night.”  
“It’ll take more than one night.”  
“We have nothing but time.”  
“And you can never tell another being about this, now or ever.”  
“I won’t,” he said seriously, “I promise.”  
“Then,” she said, taking a deep breath, “I’ll tell you my story.”

She leaned back in the chair, biting her lip.

“I suppose we should begin at the beginning- not at my birth, which was an affair without any pomp or circumstance. I was born a girl, after all.  
No, the story begins after my 14th birthday, but closer still to my 15th birthday.  
My story, like many others, begins with a marriage.”


	3. Chapter 3

“I heard Prince Ahav is a magnificent war hero,” a dark skinned girl said as she braided golden ribbons into another girl’s hair, looking in the mirror, “I heard that he has a chariot made of solid gold.”  
“You hear too much, Sisa,” the seated girl said, looking up at the one doing her hair, “You and your mother gossip all day long, even when we’re playing. That’s why I always win, you know.”  
“You win because you are a princess, Ithabaal,” Sisa teased in return, “Stop squirming! Dressing your hair is hard enough without me having to chase it!”  
The girl frowned, staring at her reflection.  
“It’s Izevel now,” she sighed, “Izevel of Israel. Not Ithabaal of Tyre.”  
“Izevel, then,” Sisa replied, “I think it sounds pretty.”  
“It means dung.”  
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic!”  
“It does! It means woman of dung!”  
“Well,” Sisa said loudly, “It’s a very pretty sounding name for dung.”  
“Shut up,” Ithabaal giggled, staring at her reflection pensively, “I wonder if I’ll be able to see the sea from Israel.”

She had loved the sea all her life, living in her embrace. Her own mother had died in childbirth, leaving her in the hands of the Goddess. Ithabaal was more than satisfied with her other mother, The Lady Astarte, whose sea protected her home as it protected her. She breathed in her mother’s scent every morning when she woke, and her mother’s lullaby of gulls and waves set her to sleep each night. A life without the sea wasn’t a life to her at all. Who could survive without her?

“You’ll be a queen! Who knows. Maybe you’ll come back to Tyre.”  
Ithabaal snorted, wrinkling her nose. Sisa was but a servant girl, of course she couldn’t understand what was about to happen. She was about to marry to align kingdoms, and she would not return to Tyre. She knew that much. Perhaps she could still see the ocean, write to her father, but she would never be Ithabaal of Tyre again. She would forever be Izevel of Israel.  
“Queens never go back to their home land,” Ithabaal replied, focusing on the gossip instead, “A chariot of solid gold, you said?”  
“Yes,” Sisa said excitedly, “And he is making a magnificent temple for Baal Shamem and his Lady Astarte.”  
“That’s because that’s tradition,” Ithabaal pointed out. It was true- tradition demanded that the husband build a temple to the wife’s gods as not to incur their wrath. Then again, the more opulent the temple, the more valuable the husband considered his wife.

“Well, when you see it, you can decide how much of it is tradition. Besides, I heard he’s also incredibly handsome.”  
“And he has eyes made of lapis lazuli and he pisses honey!” Ithabaal said, shaking her head, “I’m sure he’s simply a vision. Well, at least Father will be rid of me so he can tend to all of his fine sons.”  
“The only thing fine about those boys are their clothes,” Sisa replied, rolling her eyes, “Pity on your father to be cursed with such creatures.”  
“Oh yes, so cursed,” Ithabaal replied, “Blessed with sons in the morning and cursed with a daughter in the afternoon.”  
“Seems to me that he was cursed in the morning and blessed in the afternoon with this marriage,” Sisa giggled.

Both girls jumped when they heard the Queen Mother enter, their giggling gossip replaced with hushed honorifics and bowing. The Queen Mother glared at Sisa, standing behind Ithabaal with an austere look on her face.

“Go. I shall finish the princess’s hair,” the queen mother said with finality. Sisa gave Ithabaal a sad look before bowing and taking her leave, leaving the two royal women alone.

She hated the Queen Mother with all her being- she had swept up to the throne as if it had been her birthright, bearing her father more sons than he knew what to do with. She was thoroughly convinced that this marriage was arranged by the Queen Mother to get rid of her, to ensure that she wouldn’t be in her sons’ way. They had never spoken, never shared more than was necessary to please the king, so her presence at this moment was more than suspicious. Ithabaal sat silently, her chin raised high as the queen mother touched her hair, snorting.

“This will not do,” she said loudly, “That girl has no sense.” Ithabaal felt her cheeks burning furiously, her eyes watering. So Sisa wasn’t the best hair dresser? She was her friend.  
“She suits my needs,” Ithabaal snapped, “She’s my friend.”  
“Ithabaal, you are about to become a queen. You do not make friends with servants,” she huffed a little, pursing her lips, “You are meeting your husband today and I will not have a princess of Tyre looking like a child who has gotten into her mother’s jewels.”  
Ithabaal looked away, chewing on her lip furiously as the queen mother unwound the trinkets from her hair, only to rewind them in better. She hated the attention that the Queen Mother was giving her. It felt cheap, as if she wanted something from her.  
“I didn’t actually come here to do your hair, Ithabaal,” she said conversationally.  
“Then why did you come, stepmother?” Ithabaal demanded. The Queen Mother sighed, setting down the comb she had been using.  
“I know…that we were never...”  
“No,” Ithabaal said simply, “We weren’t.”  
“And I never knew how exactly to…”  
“Of course not.”  
“But I am a woman, and it is my duty to teach you. It’s not too late and you must know these things,” She finished, her tone taking on a self-assured quality that just rubbed Ithabaal the wrong way.  
“I know all that I need to know, stepmother,” she snapped, folding her arms.  
Her stepmother grabbed her, turning her around quickly and shaking her.

“No, you don’t,” she said firmly, “You have no idea. You will never come home. You will never see any of us again. You will never see your homeland again. Your life will never be as it once was. You aren’t a girl anymore, and you will never be a girl again. Israel is an arid, hostile land, and it will test you, try to break you. Understand this-for women, this life is nothing but pain, struggle, and unfairness. Whatever we have, we must fight to keep it. You have been handed something magnificent, though. You are more than a marriage pawn, daughter. This is an incredible opportunity. You are the eyes and ears of Tyre, right in his palace, right in his bed. This is your opportunity to become more than just a princess. When you get there, there will be those that hate you because you are a foreigner. Ignore them. Some may try to kill you- kill them first. From the minute you step foot off this boat and onto that soil, you are in danger. They will seek to kill you, poison you, poison your husband against you. Men are fools, Ithabaal; you must remember this, which is why men need wives. We are the reason; we are the carriers of their line.  
With you, Omri and Ahav will solidify their Dynasty, and many would kill to keep that from happening. There will be other wives, other children- ignore them. They are of no consequence to you. Your only cause, your only goal, from the first time Ahav enters your virgin flesh, is to produce sons. The moment you stand upon the birthing blocks and bring forth a male child, squalling into this world, you shall become the most powerful being in all of Israel, as great as Baal Shamem himself. Because just as his chariot brings the life giving rain, so too shall your womb bring the sons that shall solidify a great and mighty dynasty. There will be unimaginable pain and suffering, and it will rip you open at your very core. But that is the price of a woman’s power.”

Ithabaal looked up at her stepmother with trembling lips, fear quaking through her. She had been afraid, yes, but her stepmother’s words had terrified her because they rang true. She could feel tears prickling in her eyes, her chest heaving as she fought the sobs that wanted to spring forth.

“Oh child,” her stepmother said softly, stroking her face, “I was once just like you, afraid and in a foreign land, lost and alone. But there is reason why they send away women to marry kings- because unlike men, women are born with the strength to endure. They may weigh your head down, but you must always hold it high, carry it as if it were naught but a feather. You must endure.”

“I will,” Ithabaal whispered, nodding. Her stepmother smiled, cupping her face in her hands. This was the first time the woman had ever touched her, had ever spoken to her so frankly, and it scared her all the more.

“I bless you to Baal Shamem and his Lady Astarte, and all the gods of Tyre. May they guard and keep you. I bless you to YHWH and his Asherah. May your womb be fruitful and your body strong,” she said softly, leaning forward and kissing Ithabaal’s head, “How funny. I pined so long for a daughter, and yet here you are, with another woman’s face. Be strong, daughter. Be fierce. You are a princess, and you shall be a queen. Be Astarte, daughter.”  
The older woman stood, squeezing the girl’s shoulder gently. Ithabaal reached up and grabbed her hand, pressing her cheek against it.  
“Thank you, mother,” she whispered softly. The older woman closed her eyes, nodding.

They were interrupted by the calls of the crew, the shouts of land. She looked up at her stepmother as she hung the heavily embroidered veil over her face. The older woman nodded her approval, leading her from the stuffy cabins into the fresh sea air. Ithabaal closed her eyes tightly, taking strength from the Lady, the sea, for her trial ahead.

“A gift for you, child,” the Queen Mother said gently, taking Ithabaal’s hand. She dropped a sea-smoothed pebble into her palm, closing her fingers around it.  
“So that Tyre will always be with you,” she said softly, “Tyre will not forget its precious daughter.”

Ithabaal nodded to herself as she remembered her stepmother’s words from before; her heart in her throat as she made her way to shore, to Baal’s Headland and to the Covenant of Tyre and Israel. She wanted to leap from the boat and throw herself into the arms of the sea, or perhaps into the arms of her stepmother who, just hours before, she had hated so fervently. She was terrified of what the future held, what waited for her on shore.

* * *

 

“And that was my first lesson in life,” Meg said, “That life is unfair, unknown, but there is always pain. I was 14 years old, and I was walking into a kingdom that had just had a civil war- a country that had split in two, and my betrothed was the son of a Usurper. I was a foreign princess with foreign gods in an unforgiving place.”  
Sam studied her face, nodding.  
“Did you ever go back to Tyre?” he asked softly, “Did you ever see your stepmother again?”  
“No,” she replied, “I never saw her, my father, my brothers, or Sisa again. In fact, I only saw the sea twice in my human lifetime after that.”  
Sam blinked, shocked by her response. The idea of being so young and never being able to go back home, never seeing her entire family, never seeing her friends again…he couldn’t imagine it. Life without Dean while he was still alive was unimaginable. To know that they were all alive and so close….it must’ve been crushing.  
“I can’t imagine how hard that must’ve been,” he said kindly. She looked at him with a smirk.  
“My stepmother was right, though. Everything she told me was true,” she replied, “And my first lesson in the cruelty and unfairness of life was not when I stepped foot on shore, but when I went to Baal’s Headland. I was not prepared for what waited for me there.”

* * *

 

She didn’t like this place. Her stepmother was right- it was an arid, hostile land that did not want her, and she felt as though she could feel the land’s disgust for her through her sandals. She longed for the sea, for home, but as they climbed the mountain, she took comfort in the West Wind, the same wind that swept across the sands of her home, but it was an empty comfort. There were none of the sounds and smells of her home cradled on that wind, just dust to coat her nose and lips. If her veil weren’t so heavy, she might’ve looked for the sea, but she knew it was not there. She knew that she was alone in this place.

She could feel all eyes on her in all her finery, her wrists and ankles jangling from the bracelets that were on her, the rings on her fingers making them feel heavy. The people around her were all plain, without adornment and she could feel the envy from them. She was thankful then for the veil hiding her face, protecting her from the direct feeling of their stares, because if she saw them she felt as if she might scream.  
Her jewels and finery were as much a curse as a gift. They were all intended to show the wealth and prosperity of Tyre, and her body was the delivery of her father’s approval in Israel’s military might, in Omri, Ahav’s father’s, plans to control the whole region. From the moment of her first blood on, everything in her life was about this match, this marriage of lands. It wasn’t about her, or Ahav- it was about the kings and their plans. Omri realized that her father was right- loyalty was best earned by reward, rather than earned by fear. Omri and his son could win battles, but they did not know how to win people, not the way her father could.

And she was to be the link between these two unlike people; she was the link to a king of great prosperity. By marrying her, Ahav and his father had brought the blood of success into their country.

Everything about this place put her on edge. She could not hear the sea, or the birds, instead all she heard was the wind moaning through the stone columns and around the altars, carrying the smell of burnt flesh and the cries of animals as they fell to the knife. She echoed the prayers and her vows, but they were carried swiftly away on the wind as they left her lips; and never had she been so sure that she was in a godless place.

She couldn’t bring herself to look at her husband again, for what she saw frightened her. He was a powerfully built man, tall and strong, a soldier with none of the refinement of the men she knew in Tyre. A sword and whip on his belt, his clothes of rough cotton covered in leather armor; he was a warrior, better suited for the battlefield than a wedding in his state of dress. He was only ten years older than her, but his face was that of a man, a man who was second in command of his father’s military and his designated successor. There was no gentleness in his face, no tenderness as he spoke, his words as rough and dusty as the wind that blew around her. The ambassador reached out and took her hand, joining it with his, and she marveled at how rough his hands were, so unlike the men of Tyre.

With her last piece of Tyre clutched in one hand and the other joined with Ahav’s, Ithabaal of Tyre left everything she’d ever known behind, and walked out of that place rechristened as Izevel of Israel.

* * *

  
That night in their tent, Izevel was seized with fear. Her husband was not the handsome and regal prince that she had been told she would be wed to. Instead, she had been wed to a Commander, a warrior, and standing in his tent, waiting for him to come and seize her, she felt weak and exposed.

She was not used to sleeping in tents, nor was she used to the sounds of the camp that surrounded them. She was not used to the riotous men with their loud talking and their even louder laughing, their shadows bent and twisted like monsters on the walls of the tent. She wasn’t used to the friendly chatter of the women of the camp, gossiping and trading secrets, paying her no mind. She wasn’t like them, so why would they bother with her?  
She was not used to the calloused and clipped language that they used- it had sounded so different in her father’s mouth, in her tutor Abdi Ptah’s mouth, in her own. She wasn’t used to being spoken to so roughly, not the way she was when an old crone entered the tent and saw her standing there in her wedding dress still.  
“Do you know how to undress yourself, girl?” she asked, setting a large wash basin down. Izevel nodded nervously, rubbing her arms. The crone nodded back, her hands on her hips.  
“Well, you must do so now. Your Lord will come to you shortly and he will not want to be held up by all that finery when he seeks to consummate,” she said with a short laugh before turning and leaving Izevel alone in the tent to strip away her jewels and dress, to take off what was her only protection in this land. She knew that she was worth nothing without her finery- just a piece of flesh for a man to writhe inside of, just a broodmare for the royal line. And as she slowly peeled away each chunk of precious metal from her body, she became angry. She was supposed to marry a prince who was about to take the throne. She was supposed to show him how to conduct foreign policy. She was supposed to be a queen, and standing in this tent with its dust floor and the smell of animals and unwashed humans around her, she did not feel like a queen. In fact, she felt as if she were a stable girl.

She nearly jumped out of her skin as the men around the nearby fire cheered again, calling out to their fearless leader. She could hear their jokes, their subtle insinuations, and she could hear her own husband laugh with them, as if it were of no consequence. As if she was of no consequence.

She could hear his footsteps approaching, and she stiffened as he threw aside the flap of the tent, striding inside with a sigh. The radiant smile that he had on just a moment before fell away, replaced with exhaustion and unease. She thought for just a moment that he may know how she felt, but she reminded herself that he was 10 years older than she was- He’d already laid with women, had produced a child as well. A child, if Sisa had heard properly, that was a bit younger than she was. She wondered about that girl, if she missed her father and wondered about the new wife he was bringing home. She used these thoughts to distract her racing mind, trying to calm her nerves. If he had noticed her nerves, he had yet to say anything. He untied his armor as she watched him closely, her arms wrapped around herself.  
He was looking at her every now and again, catching appraising glances of her, as if he were trying to decide what her best angle was as he undressed. She let out a small huff, pulling her shift closer to her, to save what bit of modesty she could before he took it all.  
“Good Evening, Izevel,” he said simply, taking off his cuffs and dropping them on the ground, “I know, a new name must take a bit of getting used to. I’ve had that trouble myself, changing ranks. But I’m sure that’s of no interest to you. Do you like my homeland?”  
She didn’t answer as he pulled his scabbard off his belt, chatting all the while.  
“YHWH’s land takes some time to adapt to,” he continued, “But adapt you will, in time.”  
He looked over at her, a small smile crossing his face as he loosened the braces on his calves.

“Don’t be afraid, girl,” he said. She lifted her chin high in the air, folding her arms.  
“I am not afraid,” she said, her voice holding all of her conviction, as if by saying it that it would be true.  
He looked her over, letting out a soft laugh as he tossed aside his braces, pulling off his chest piece.  
“You’re quite pretty,” he remarked as he hung up his chest piece and pulled his shirt over his head, “Prettier than I thought you would be.”  
She stared at the brown and scarred skin of his back and torso, another shot of fear streaking through her. This man was nothing but roughness; and she was afraid of displeasing him. There was no house for her now but his, and displeasing him was nothing short of a death sentence for her. But, he had found her pretty, and prettier than he expected, so things were going well, at least for now.

“Thank you, my lord,” she mumbled, her eyes on the floor. He laughed, a full and heavy one as he washed the day from his skin in the basin of water.  
“It wasn’t a compliment, girl,” he said, glancing over at her as he splashed water on his neck, “Your father said you were quite plain.”  
Her cheeks burned, biting her lip furiously.  
“My father did not want you to be misled.”  
“Are you stupid, then?”  
Her head shot up, fury in her eyes.  
“Did he say I was stupid as well, my lord?” she demanded, her hands balled into fists at her side. He laughed at her yet again, drying himself off.  
“Quite the contrary. He said that your plainness was made up for in your mind. And now you stand before me beautiful and delicate, so I must wonder if you are stupid.”  
“No, My lord, I am not stupid.”  
“But you told a man who stares fear in the face every day that you are not afraid,” he said with a gentle smile, walking over to her, “That, dear girl, seems rather stupid.”  
“Why do you call me girl?” she demanded, looking up at him, “I am a woman and your wife!”  
He raised an eyebrow at her, smirking.  
“Your father didn’t mention that you were disrespectful.”  
“Funny, he didn’t mention that you were disrespectful, either.”

He let out a loud round of laughter, slapping his leg with amusement.  
“Tell me, are all of Tyre’s women as sharp minded and sharp tongued as you are?” he asked.  
“No.”  
“Then I see why Ethbaal was so willing to marry you off,” he replied. She turned away from him, furious at his taunts. How dare he! The impudence…  
She felt his hand on her shoulder, warm and gentle as he turned her around.  
“I’ve never met a woman that would turn her back on her husband,” he said softly, his hand stroking over her shoulder to cup her cheek, “You are an uncommon thing, aren’t you? Intelligent, beautiful, strong. I need a strong queen.”  
“My lord?” she asked softly, looking up into his eyes. They were like fiery obsidian, burning right through her.  
“I am speaking quite plainly,” he replied.  
“I wouldn’t presume to know what you mean.”  
“You know my father’s history, do you not?”  
“I do, my lord.”  
“And you know that it falls to you, as queen, to continue my line.”  
“I do.”  
“This does not frighten you?”  
“No,” she said firmly, and she knew it was the truth. She was not afraid, not anymore, “Should it?”  
“It should, if you had any sense.”  
“I am your wife, and I shall stand by your side.”  
He took her face in his hand, staring deeply into her eyes, so much so that she almost pulled away.  
“Now that, I believe.”

* * *

 

They moved on from Baal’s Headland inward, from the rocks and the sand to rocks and dust. When the wagons rumbled into Tirzah, Izevel was met with disappointment again- first her prince was actually a warlord commander, and now his palace was the ruins of a once fortified city, crowded with small huts and houses. The smell of the camp that they had spent their 7 days and nights together in was as strong if not stronger here- there were so many bodies in one confined space that even outside, Izevel felt as if she were suffocating on the smell of livestock and unwashed bodies. She watched as they rolled through, seeing the children of the families there outnumbered at the fountains by shepherds, sheep, and goats.

She knew of the Civil War in Israel, the scrambling panic to dethrone the usurper, the disagreement over who should be king then- of course, she was well versed in Israel’s more recent history- but she didn’t realize how war torn the land truly was until they passed through the crumbled remains of what she could tell was once a great and well-fortified wall.

The city of Tirzah was little more than a glorified army encampment.

She could see the great stones on either side of the cleared path, drug away simply to suit the need for through-way, leading to the king’s house- which was little more than a cluster of huts built, it seemed, hunched on top of one another. Her memory of Tyre was too fresh for her to be impressed by these meager surroundings, and she realized just how right her stepmother was- Israel was indeed, it seemed, made to test her fortitude.

They had paused for a few minutes in front of the king’s house, but she knew even this was not her destination- she was bound for the prince’s house, not King Omri’s. There were nothing but stones tossed about- many old and tumbled into piles from the fall of the wall, and yet more others freshly hewn with care for pillars, facings and corners. It was clear that this encampment was not to be this way for long, but it would be this way for long enough.

To her surprise, though, one of the soldiers called out to her, holding out a calloused hand to help her down from the wagon.  
“King Omri wishes to meet his son’s newest wife,” he said, waving for her to follow. She walked along behind him, stunned that she was going to see her husband’s father in the state she was in. She was dirty and mussed; nothing at all like she had looked on her wedding. She followed close behind the shoulder, resisting the urge to reach out and grab hold of his hand like a frightened child.

She followed the soldier into a dimly lit room, and she realized that her husband looked very much like his father. He was a towering man, with white hair and a silver beard, his voice loud and booming.

“Ah! Come forward, I wish to look on the face that will produce my son many sons of his own,” he said, waving for her to come forward. She stepped forward and felt his gaze on her, her chin tucked into her chest. She hadn’t feared Ahav at first, because she thought he would be a refined man of culture. But she held no such fantasies about her father in law. She knew that he was a warlord, better suited with a sword in his hand and blood on his face than a stylus in hand and a crown on his head.

She could hear his footsteps as he circled her, observing her much the way a man would observe an ox at an auction, appraising what he had paid for. He lifted her hair and sniffed it, snorting to himself. He took her hands, turning them this way and that.  
“How long have you bled?” he asked, causing a flush to rise on her cheeks. She didn’t want to speak of such things with her father in law, but she swallowed and braced herself.  
“Just short of four seasons,” she said softly.  
“And you are a virgin? Well, were, on your wedding night?”  
She squeezed her eyes shut, nodding, remembering the humiliation of that first night, the cloth on the bridal bed stained red with her virginity, held high above Ahav’s head as she lay on the bed, naked and cold. The same blanket tucked safely inside her chest, her sacred proof of her virginity before the consummation of her marriage.  
“Very good,” he said, nodding, “Very good. Welcome to Tirzah, Izevel.”

With that he turned his back, and the soldier took her gently by the arm, leading her away. Her heart raced, realizing for the first time since she had entered Tirzah that this was all real- she was truly going to live here, she was really in Israel forever. She swallowed her tears and held her head high, despite her heavy heart.

Her palace, it turned out, was a small mud brick house within the compound, already housing Ahav’s first wife, Ishah, and his daughter, Athaliah. She went into her rooms, but did not unpack her fine things, only meager bits that would make it livable. They would do nothing to help, only to remind her of what she once had, and she sat upon her bed and wept.

“Are you Father’s new wife?”

Izevel looked up at the small voice to see a girl with a long dark plait down her back, a plain cotton dress and bare feet. The only thing that denoted her royal parentage was her father’s intense eyes; sat into the face of an 8 year old.

“Yes,” she said softly, wiping her eyes, “I am Izevel.”  
“Your name means woman of dung,” Athaliah pointed out, giggling. Had it been anyone but a child who had said it, she may have broken into tears again, but instead, she burst into laughter. It was rather funny, in a sad way. From woman of Baal to woman of dung- it seemed a cruel joke- from a princess to a commander’s wife.  
“You’re right, it does,” she replied with a smile, “What does your name mean?”  
“YHWH is exalted,” she replied, walking into the room hesitantly, “Your dress is very pretty.”  
“Thank you,” she said, looking around, “Where is your mother?”  
“With the other women,” she replied, “I’ve done all my morning work, so I’m to keep out of the way for a bit. Where did you come from?”  
“I came from a place called Tyre,” she replied, “Have you always lived here?”  
“I don’t know. We have as long as I can remember,” Athaliah said, “Is Tyre very far from here?”  
“Yes, it’s quite far.”  
Athaliah sat next to her, a dreamy look on her face.  
“Is Tyre pretty?” she asked.  
“I think it’s the most beautiful place in the world,” Izevel said, sighing softly, “It was right next to the sea.”  
“What’s the sea like?”  
“You’ve never seen the sea?”  
“No, never.”  
“It’s very big, and calming. The waves and the gulls make your feel at peace,” she said, “And when you swim in it, it’s the most wonderful feeling. Like a thousand cool hands holding you.”  
“It sounds like paradise,” Athaliah hummed. She looked at the sleepy, happy look on the young girl’s face, promising herself that someday she would take her to see the ocean. Her stepmother would disapprove of her making friends with Ahav’s daughter by another woman, but the girl was charming, and it comforted her to know that at least someone seemed to like her here.

They both looked up when they heard a loud clicking at the door, seeing Ishah standing there with her arms folded. Athaliah bolted out the door quickly, not sparing a backward glance; leaving Izevel and Ishah alone.  
“So, you are Ahav’s new foreign wife,” Ishah said, looking at her closely, “You don’t look like you’ve worked a day in your life.”  
“I haven’t,” she replied honestly. Ishah let out a snort, nodding.  
“How old are you?” she mused, “Can’t be more than 14 summers, 15 at most.”  
“You’re right.”  
“I know I am,” she said, “I am going to give you some advice. Advice I would have treasured when I came here.”  
She leaned forward and Izevel could see the fine lines in her skin, the dark rings under her eyes and the tiredness in her face.  
“Do not expect the throne to be passed from Omri to Ahav to whatever son you might produce. Until Ahav is made king, remember that you are a commander’s wife, nothing more. Until you have a son, you should not dream of princes.”  
“You don’t believe that Ahav will inherit the throne?” she asked, looking confused. Ishah let out a laugh, shaking her head.  
“Child, Omri is not beloved, nor is his son. I know that Ahav will never sit on the throne in my lifetime, and I am very sure that I will live for a good many years yet,” she said, “Don’t look at me with those sad and pitying eyes. These are not the words of a jealous and demoted wife- I am speaking to you, woman to woman. Adapt. Forget finery. You must focus on each day, not the future. Not in this place. To focus on the future is to curse yourself to madness.”

Izevel nodded, taking stock in what Ishah had said. It was clear that Tirzah’s walls weren’t the only things that needed mending after the Civil War, and she realized that focusing on the present meant nothing to her. She hadn’t lied to Ishah- she had never worked a day in her life. She knew how to direct servants, but not how to direct a flock. She knew how to plan a feast, purchase for a feast, but not how to cook. She could turn flax into linen on an ivory distaff, how to choose colored threads to weave a garment for the Goddess’s festival, but she didn’t know how to card weedy fleece or spin wool that still smelled of the sheep it came from on a rough stick. These people focused on the present because there was nothing else of value to focus on- the past was too painful, the future too uncertain. After everything, the people of Israel, the wives of Israel, distrusted any future, especially the ones that seem good.

“I don’t know how to do the things that you do,” Izevel admitted, “I don’t know how to be a commander’s wife.”  
“Then learn,” Ishah said simply, before turning her back on her. Ahav’s first wife left her with her cold advice; left her to decipher what she needed to do.

At first, everyone but Athaliah left her alone in her rooms, bringing handmade gifts and pitying looks. They knew she was a foreign princess who was Ahav’s second wife, and they had gotten the impression that this was not what she expected when she married him. The ladies all were polite, keeping their space and averting their gazes and hushing their conversations when she passed. She was left to her sulking, left to her to her homesickness. Until one day Ishah burst in, hands on her hips.

“Up with you,” She demanded, “Did you just get married, or did someone die? You have mourned your broken dreams for far long enough.”  
“How can you understand?” Izevel demanded bitterly, “I want to go home.”  
“Child, I understand better than you know,” Ishah said harshly, “But this is your home now whether you like it or not, and there is a time to cry. Now is not that time. Now, up. I will give you a dress that befits a commander’s wife, and you shall join us.”

Izevel looked up at her with red eyes, sniffling gently.  
“Why are you helping me?” Izevel asked, “I’m his other wife.” Ishah shook her head, rolling her eyes.  
“No, we are two women who must learn to work together,” she said firmly, “Athaliah told me of your mother, that she died when you were birthed. I can only assume that you did not have a woman to teach you the things a woman must know.”  
“No,” she said, wiping her face, “Other than my tutors, there was no one.”  
“Then I shall teach you,” Ishah said, “That is my duty as a mother.”  
“You aren’t my mother, and I am a woman now.”  
“Then I shall step in, in her spirit,” she insisted, “You are a woman in body, but you are uneducated in the things you must know here. Do they not teach good will in Tyre?”  
“They taught me to never think that a person gives good will without a price.”  
“So they taught you something,” Ishah said with a smirk, “Very well, Izevel. In exchange for your education, you will educate Athaliah,” she paused, kneeling beside Izevel and taking her hands, “And if the day should pass that I die before you, you must swear on your gods that you will look after her, as if she were your own.”  
“Of course,” she promised, “By the Lady Astarte, I will watch over her.”

Ishah nodded, satisfied with her promise.  
“Up with you, then,” She said with a smile, “It is time to begin your education.”

Under Ishah’s tutelage, she joined the women and learned, and flourished. There was suddenly no moment for missing home, and no pity to be had for herself. She realized that most of the women of Tirzah had been left widowed and sonless from earlier purges and battles, trying to oversee fields and households, while also making cloth and bread for the camp. These women did everything for themselves, from the making of their own cloth and thread to grinding their own grain for flour. There was not one part of the entire camp that had not felt a woman’s touch. They built, they sowed, they reaped, and they cooked. The very dress that she had put on from Ishah had been made completely by her hands.  
She became intensely thankful for the bustle of the camp, for the friendly chatter of the women as they worked. She learned who spun the softest wool, who had the best herbs, whose ewe had given birth to twins and could spare one for meat. She learned the secrets of womanhood that she hadn’t known- which herbs could be chewed to alleviate cramps, which herbs to boil to soothe an unsettled stomach, what salves would heal the birthing tearing the fastest. She traded their wisdom for trinkets, embroidery and weaving, loom patterns from Tyre. Before she knew it, she was one of them- laughing along with their understated wit as she and Athaliah carried baskets into the hills to gather herbs, down to the fountains to fetch water. There was a sense of freedom in Tirzah that she had never experienced- she was free to walk where she pleased and be with the women, without having to run off at the call of one of her wranglers. She was free to go into the hills or to the fountain, free to sit around the fire and, with newly work- roughened hands, to spin wool on a rough stick weighted with a ring of hardened clay.

The women teased her that Ahav came to the house more often since she had come, and that his beard always smelled of her perfume oils when he left. She didn’t know what to say, for fear of angering Ishah, but she always smiled and laughed with them. She learned from Athaliah that her mother’s womb had closed, unable to bear children anymore. There was no reason for her to truly be angry, but she didn’t want to upset her friend- she really had come to look at Ishah as a dear friend, just as much as any of the other women.

She had come to enjoy the sex with her husband- she was no longer afraid of the pain of her first time, and there was some pleasure to be had. At first, she was angry. The first thing that Ahav would do when he entered the house was go right to her room and expect her to disrobe and lay with him. And at first, she did. But one day he walked in, just as she was about to fetch water with the women.

“Izevel,” He said softly, kissing her. She pulled away, shaking her head.  
“I need to fetch the water,” she said, holding out her jug to show him, “I’ll be back.”  
“Ishah and Athaliah can fetch the water,” Ahav said, pulling the jug from her hands.  
“No,” she said firmly, lifting her chin high, “I will fetch the water.”  
Ahav looked her over, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes.  
“You would rather fetch water than lay with your husband?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. She laughed at him, kissing his cheek.  
“I will lay with my husband,” she said with a smirk, hefting the jug, “After I fetch the water.”  
He let out a full, belly deep laugh; as if she had said the funniest thing he’d ever heard. He slapped his thigh, coughing.  
“You’re serious,” he finally said once his laughter subsided. She nodded at him, not sure what was so funny, but pleased that she had made her husband laugh. He chuckled again, kissing her on the forehead.  
“I need to win this war,” he said as he headed back to her room, “If for no other reason than to keep you from using the water as an excuse to make me wait.”  
“If you think that winning the war will keep me from fetching the water, you’re sadly mistaken,” she called out, glowing with pride. She’d felt so unmanned when facing her husband for so long that the fact that she could surprise him and actually make him wait for her sent her into bliss.

She grinned as she filled her jug, catching Elia’s eye.  
“And what has got you grinning like a dog with a bone, Ize?” Elia said, bouncing her grandson on her hip.  
“I have achieved the impossible,” she replied, running her hand through the cool water of the fountain.  
“You’ve finally learned to grind flour without it being lumpy?” Elia teased, “What did you do?”  
“My husband is waiting patiently for me for the first time.”  
“Now how on earth did you manage that?”  
She laughed a little, lifting the full jug.  
“I told him I needed to fetch the water.”  
Elia looked at her, incredulous, before bursting into laughter.  
“I never thought I’d see the day,” she said, “A man who will wait for water before getting to his wife? Either your husband is very weak willed, or you are very strong willed.”  
Izevel laughed, “Which do you think?”  
“You’d better hurry back then,” Elia said with a grin, “Even when men wait, they don’ like it.”  
Izevel nodded, carrying the jug back quickly. She smiled to herself as she set down the jug, stripping away her dress and walking into her room.

 

Soon her belly began to grow, and she needed the boiled sage water more often than not in the morning. She was thrilled, and even the women had begun to notice. At first it appeared that she had gained weight, an impressive feat in their little community. But soon, there was no hiding the truth- she was pregnant. She had taken to sneaking around, listening to the gossip.  
“Have you seen Izevel?” She heard Eila whisper excitedly, as she carded wool, “Her belly grows.”  
“She went to Tova this morn for sage for her stomach,” Nita replied, spinning, “She’s heavy with child.”  
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Elia snorted, “With as often as Ahav is in her bed? It’s a wonder she hasn’t been with child till now!”  
Izevel spread her hands across her stomach with joy, willing her child to be a son. Despite the aches in her body and the discomforts that came with being pregnant, she was thrilled. She was fulfilling her duty, and soon she would have her own child to cuddle and preen over, the way Ishah was with Athaliah.

But it was not to be.

She woke up in a cold sweat one night in her 7th moon, her stomach and hips filled with pain.  
“No, it’s too soon,” she whispered, sitting up in her bed. Another labor-like pain hit her full force, the cold and unpleasant wetness between her legs suddenly growing warm. She threw aside her blanket, letting out a terrified scream.  
“Ishah!”

Ishah rushed into the room, candle in hand.  
“What is it, is it the baby?’ she demanded. Izevel couldn’t speak, her hysterical crying the only sound in the room. Ishah lifted the candle high and saw the fluid stain on the bed. She took Izevel in her arms, calling out for her daughter.  
“Athaliah! Fetch Eila and Nita!” she yelled, cradling Izevel to her chest, “Quick, child!”  
“Is Izevel okay?” Athaliah asked from the doorway, rubbing her eyes.  
“Go!” Ishah yelled, making the sleep leap from Athaliah’s body. Izevel grabbed her, staring up at her with terror-stricken eyes.  
“The baby,” she whispered through trembling lips. She felt Ishah’s cool and shaking hand caress her head, shaking her head.  
“I don’t know. Eila and Nita will know,” she said gently, “We need to go to the tent.”  
“The tent?”  
“Yes, the tent,” she said softly, “Up with you, there we go. Slow steps.”  
They made it all of three steps before she clutched her stomach, crying out. Ishah hushed her, holding her up.  
“You’ll be okay,” she whispered, “But you must get to the tent.”  
She limped forward, all off her weight in Ishah, her other arm around her stomach, as if she were trying to pick it up like a basket. She cried out as she fell down, her legs weak. Then, it was like nothing she’d ever seen.  
Every house around them sprung to life, women and elder children pouring out, one bringing a jug of water, another bringing a blanket. There were so many gentle hands on her, lifting her up as they all shouted to one another, one rousing chorus every few moments.  
“The Tent! To the Tent!”

“Why the tent?” she asked, dazed, “Why can’t I have him at home?”  
“Not enough space to move,” Ishah said gently, “And the blood will stain the floor.”  
“Blood?” she asked, terrified, “How much? Is my baby okay?”  
“Hush,” Ishah said firmly, “Blood is normal when birthing a child, girl. Now come.”

It took them ages, but they finally manage to hobble into the tent, surrounded by all the women and children of Tirzah, all of them helping her. For the first time in her life, Izevel felt truly, deeply cared for. All of these women and daughters had lifted her when she couldn’t walk, gave her water, stroked her hair and whispered encouragement. As the flap of the tent fell, she could hear Mothers and Grandmothers sending their little ones to bed, telling them to pray for the Commander’s wife and child.  
“Ahav,” she whispered, “Ahav needs to-“  
“No,” Ishah said quickly, “We do not tell him until the child is out. He will just make it worse.”  
“Why?” She asked desperately. Ishah stroked her sweaty hair out of her face, shaking her head.  
“Because he is a man, daughter. He will want to rush, want to stick his hands where they do not belong. This is yours, Izevel, not his. This is your battle.”  
“I can’t do it by myself,” she cried, grabbing out for Ishah’s hand, “Please don’t leave!”  
“I will hold you up on the blocks,” she said, “I will be there with you, every moment.” She waved over Eila and Nita, both of them rushing around them. She was terrified, but the gentle hands of her caretakers and friends calmed her. They knew how to deliver children- these women had helped Ishah birth Athaliah, and she was a perfectly healthy child. It was clear that these women could do anything. Next to Eila knelt her eldest daughter Tamar, the youngest of Tirzah’s midwives, and the one closest to Izevel’s age- 19 and married to one of the soldiers in Tirzah, already having given birth to their son, Binyamin, last spring. Izevel felt so weak and stupid, but their kindness was not pity- it was love. Just as she had come to love these rough women, they had come to love her.

They stroked her sweat soaked skin and hair, whispering prayers to Asherah and YHWH and other gods, entreating her to push and stop, push and stop. She screamed out her pain, her grip on Ishah white knuckled. She couldn’t believe the pain, her whole body feeling as if it were splitting in two.

She cried out to Astarte to help, her wails reaching new heights as they all shook their heads and checked her, Nita’s rough hands reaching up and feeling the child’s feet.

She stood, whispering to Eila and Tamar, all of them looking at Izevel sadly. Ishah nodded to them as they all knelt in front of her again. Izevel was too dazed to realize that those looks were not of determination to get the stubborn child from her body- they were looks of sadness, pity. Ishah stroked her head comfortingly, her hand pressing against her belly, as if she were going to push the child from her body with her hands.  
“Big push, Izevel, and then it’s done,” She said softly, “Now…Push!”  
She pushed, letting out a scream of pain and frustration, collapsing heavily against Ishah. Ishah held her, nodding.  
“You did well,” she said gently, “It’s done. Rest.”  
“I want to hold my baby,” she whispered in a dazed voice, “Is it a boy?”  
Nita nodded as Izevel held out her arms.  
“Give me my son,” she demanded, “I want my son.”  
“Izevel…” Ishah began, taking her arms, “Izevel, he is born asleep.”  
“What?”  
Nita stayed on the other end of the tent as Eila and Tamar came close, touching her. She could feel now that there was something wrong, something very wrong. These women had cried out for joy at any of her other accomplishments, their praises loud and clear. There was nothing joyful about them now. In fact, it seemed as if they would rather be anywhere than with her in the tent. Her son was born asleep…they could just wake him, up, couldn’t they?  
“Wake him up,” she said, looking up at Ishah, “Please, just wake him up.”  
“Izevel…”  
“What’s happening? Just give him to me, please!” she cried out, pushing away from them, “My son!”  
They grabbed her, holding her and hushing her as she lashed out at them.  
“She’s going to hurt herself,” Elia cried out, “Tamar, her legs!”  
Izevel grunted as she felt Tamar put all of her weight down on her legs, Elia grabbing her wrists and holding her still. It wasn’t until Ishah grabbed her face that she calmed.  
“He’s dead, Izevel, the child was born dead,” she said firmly, “Stop fighting us, you’ll only make it worse.”  
“He can’t be,” she said, shaking her head, “He can’t be, he’s not!”  
“He is.”  
“No!”

She managed to wriggle her way out of the three women’s grip, rushing over to Nita and the bundle in her arms. When she saw the look on Nita’s face, she froze dead in her tracks. Nita, unlike the others, was never a woman of many words. She said what she meant, and her face always betrayed her true emotions.  
There was sorrow written plainly in her wizened features.

“Can I look at him?” she whispered, “Just look.”  
Nita nodded, uncovering the baby, and Izevel let out a soft sob. Her son lay still as stone in the cloth he was wrapped in, her chest constricting. She felt as though she couldn’t breathe.  
“Can I…can I hold him?” She asked softly, holding her arms out desperately. Nita nodded, gently laying the tiny infant in her arms. She stroked his tiny face with a single finger, tears running down her face.  
“He’s so beautiful,” she whispered, counting his fingers and toes, “He’s perfect.”  
“Izevel,” Nita began, only to be hushed by Ishah.  
“Let her,” Ishah whispered.

She dropped the arm of her dress, lifting her son to her breast.  
“Please,” she whispered as she pressed the nipple to her son’s mouth, “Please, Ba’al, have mercy on my son. Please, let him breathe, let him cry out!”  
She let out a heart rending cry, her shoulders heaving.  
“Please!” she wailed, “Wake up! Please!”  
Nita took her son from her, leaving the tent quickly.  
“My son!” she screamed out, “My baby, my son!”  
Ishah wrapped her arms around Izevel, both of them sinking to their knees. Izevel buried her face in Ishah’s neck as the woman hushed her, stroking her hair and whispering prayers.

* * *

 

 

“At 15, I gave birth to that dead child, and never in my life had I felt such a profound loss. All that pain, and I never heard his cry. He never breathed, never felt my touch. He was so pretty, my tiny dead boy. With ten perfect fingers and ten perfect toes, beautiful little thing, but there was not life in him. I held him to my breast in desperation, begging Ba’al to let my son suddenly breathe, let him wake and latch to my breast. But he was limp, his eyes closed, lips pressed together. Nita took him from my arms as I cried hysterically, wailing loud enough to wake the king himself, but not loud enough to wake my son.”

Sam sat in stunned silence, seeing the pain etched in her face- this ancient pain still so vivid to her, the loss of her son before she could ever know him.  
“Meg…” he said softly, cut off.  
“Most people don’t realize this, but when a baby dies in utero, they may get puffy, have a little color change and some minor deterioration, but nothing like rotting flesh. They look, for the most part, like a baby should. And I think that was the cruelest part. My son looked like a perfect baby, but he wasn’t breathing or moving,” she continued, “It adds insult to injury, seeing that perfect little baby who just wasn’t alive.”  
She paused, taking a deep breath.  
“There is so much to do when a child dies; I think people forget that, even now. You have to clean them, bury them. My son didn’t even live long enough to be named, even by today’s time. I called him my _Barkit_.”  
“What does that mean?” Sam asked, looking at her with sadness. He could never imagine how painful that whole experience must’ve been for her, how broken it must’ve left her.  
“It means blessing in my mother tongue,” she said softly, “Phoenician.”

Sam didn’t know what to say. He had only known Meg as a demon- a cruel, evil thing, then an ally that had to be watched closely, should she turncoat. But now, knowing even the small bit she had shared with him in one night, he knew he would never look at her the same again, for several reasons. It had already given him pause when he realized that demons were human once- he always wanted to see the best in everyone, and once Meg started helping them, he wanted to see the best in her, and he did. He could see that there was a lot under her cruel and rude exterior. He just hadn’t expected the demon who had defended the slaughter of innocent people with _“Hi, I’m Meg, I’m a demon”_ to also have so much inside her. It seemed so unlike her.

“You said that word,” Sam said sheepishly, “In the church, when you were delirious. I couldn’t make out most of what you were saying, but you said that word quite a few times.”

Meg didn’t reply, her face turned away from him. Sam had no idea that this was where the story would go- it had started out well enough, but he never imagined this. Nothing about her suggested that she’d ever even want children, let along be heartbroken over the death of a child. He could see that her eyes were red and moist, but she had too much pride to let the tears fall. She stared him defiantly in the eye as he stared back, seeing every emotion that he thought that she didn’t have. A tear slipped from her eye, despite her efforts. Sam reached out, taking a deep breath as she flinched away. He brushed the tear away gently.

“You can cry,” He said softly, “There’s no shame in that.”  
She laughed, shaking her head.  
“Blow me, Winchester,” she snapped, “You think this is the moment that we’re gonna both cry and hug each other? Yeah, that’ll be the day.”  
“Why do you do that?” Sam demanded, “Why do you do that thing where you let a little bit out and then you close up again? What is the fucking point?”  
“I didn’t even want to talk about this!” she yelled at him, “I didn’t even want your blood in the first place!”  
“You said it was okay!”  
“Consent when the choices are do it or be killed isn’t consent, stupid! I thought you would know that better than fucking anybody.”

Sam leaned back away from her, feeling the sting of her last remark. She was right- he hadn’t made sure she was okay with it. He’d taken her yes as a yes when Dean and even he had tried to kill her before when she didn’t do what they wanted. Death was always a threat, even when they didn’t explicitly say so. Hell, torture was always a threat with Dean around.

“You’re right,” Sam said, hanging his head, “I should’ve known better.”

Meg sighed loudly, tipping her head back and staring at the ceiling.

“Don’t do that,” she said, “Don’t make me feel guilty for telling you something you didn’t want to hear, you manipulative little shit.”  
“I’m not trying to make you feel guilty,” Sam said, “I’m genuinely sorry.”  
“Yes you are,” she said, looking over at him, her head still tipped back, “You might be sorry, but I know that tone. That sad puppy dog tone that you use when you’ve been caught with your pants around your ankles and don’t want to be in trouble. You are sorry but you also know that an apology isn’t enough so you use that fucking tone. Don’t insult me, Sammy. I know you better than anyone.”  
“Yeah, because you entered my body without my consent.”  
“Yeah, and how many times have I almost died for you, trying to make that up to you? How many times have I put my ass on the line for that? I know I fucked up, Sam. But in the great wide scheme of things, don’t you think that what I did is the least of all the people in your life?”  
“You literally took control of my body and locked me up in my mind.”  
“And then I helped save you from going crazy,” she snapped, “And I watched over Cas while he was nuttier than a shithouse rat, and I helped you save Kevin and keep him safe, I was the suicide mission decoy so you two could kill the king dick chomper, then I showed you where the angel tablet was. No never mind to the fact that I was going to help you close the gates of goddamn hell,” she said, “So I get that what I did was wrong, and it still is traumatizing you, but at least after I possessed you, I tried to make up for it. Unlike the other thing that possessed you.”  
“Don’t talk about Lu-“ Sam’s words tripped up for a moment-“ him,” he amended, his tone angry.  
“We talked about me and my past, but yours is off limits?” she asked, “Wow, you’re almost as hypocritical as your brother.”  
“Don’t bring Dean into this,” Sam said, “He doesn’t have anything to do with this.”  
“He has everything to do with it!” she snarled, making Sam sit back at her sudden aggressive turn.  
“What are you talking about?”

Meg turned her head away from Sam, taking deep breaths through her nose.

“I’m done for the night,” she said, tossing her hair out of her face, “I think that should be more than enough for that syringe, don’t you?”

Sam blinked, remembering how this started. The blood. At least that was something (the only thing) that hadn’t changed- she always wanted her due. He grabbed the syringe, looking a bit dubious. He believed her, deep inside, but his logic had Dean’s voice, echoing in his ears.  
_Demons lie. She’s a demon._

“How do I know you aren’t lying?” he asked. Meg smirked at him.  
“Have I lied to you yet?” she asked, “I mean, in the span of the past like, 7 years or something?”  
“No, you haven’t,” Sam replied, nodding to himself. She had enough of a point to silence his logic- but he was uneasy with her reply. It echoed around inside him until it was his voice.

_I will never lie to you, Sam._

He swallowed shallowly, starting to sweat. This was not the time to be letting…that…get to him. He reassured himself that there was no way Meg could know that her words sounded so close to his. There was no way she knew something so intimate. She wasn’t able to read his mind unless she was inside him. And that hadn’t happened again.  
He chuckled a little to himself.  
“Besides…I know you’re a good actress, but you’re not that good.”  
“Don’t insult my acting abilities,” she replied, “Can we not do it in the neck this time? That kinda hurts like a motherfucker.”

Sam paused, holding the syringe in one hand and her wrist in the other. Most addicts turn to drugs to self-medicate, to find a high that makes it better, whatever it is. He remembered that from one of the books he’d read, and how true it rang to his experience with the demon blood. He wanted it because it made him feel good, sharper, stronger. It made the echoing worries and fears stuck on constant loop in his head fade away, leaving silence. He thought better. He felt like he was at the top of the world, and he hadn’t felt that in so long.  
What was this budding addiction doing for her? What was it making better?

“Why do you want the blood?” he asked, cocking his head to the side.  
“I want it, and I don’t want it,” she said quietly, “It makes me feel the way a human does.”  
“It makes you feel like a human?”  
“No,” she said, “It makes me experience emotions like a human.”

That wasn’t the answer he expected- he had expected the answer to be that it made her high, that it was like heroin- after all, he could only assume that if demon blood was his steroids, that his blood would be like heroin for demons. Instead, she wanted it because it made her experience human emotions. It was rather sad for him to realize that what she told him tonight had already caused her a lot of pain as a demon- and demons apparently didn’t feel the way humans did. What did all that make her feel as a human? How did she even survive?

“You’re something else,” Sam said quietly, being as gentle as he could be injecting his blood in her arm. He looked up to see her eyes gloss over, a sad smile on her face.  
  
“Honey, you have no idea,” she replied.


	4. Chapter 4

Meg sat alone in the darkness, her cheeks itching madly from her dried tears as she scratched frantically. She was thankful that her hit of Sam’s blood hadn’t kicked in until Sam had left, because she couldn’t keep back the tears once it hit her full force. Other than in the church, it had been centuries since she’d felt such a deep and profound ache, the kind that made her throat close and her body tremble at the power of it; the kind that could cripple the body and wring it dry. For nearly four days, she sat in the darkness, crying out her pain, the only sound she could hear being her own stuttered and gasped breaths. She wasn’t sure who to thank for Sam’s sudden absence, but she was immensely thankful for it. She didn’t think she’d be able to stand it if he had seen her like this.

She didn’t know what exactly had made the younger Winchester curious about her life as a human, and she wasn’t sure why exactly she was telling him anything. It wasn’t as if any human had ever heard her story- well, her side of her story. Sam Winchester was as good a person as any to tell it to, she supposed, reasons be damned. But she realized that there was something truly, deeply wrong with her for accepting the blood, knowing how bad it was going to hurt. She was a masochist, if there ever was one.

It wasn’t as if she was uncomfortable sharing this sort of information- she wasn’t the girl in Tirzah giving birth to a stillborn son and she hadn’t been for thousands of years. That wasn’t her- that was some alien being; like a film she watched once- which wasn’t far from what her story had become to historians, to the world. Just a small piece of a book, just a name. She told herself that she wasn’t connected to that person anymore, that it was nothing more than a story to her, even though she had spent days in a lightless room crying over it, even though she nearly cried while even talking about it. In fact, she was thoroughly in denial and quite happy that way, until Sam Fucking Winchester and his blood came along and ruined everything. She wanted to refuse the blood and keep her delusions, thank you very much. It made no sense to know how frail that delusion was and yet for her to continue to do things that shattered it. When it came down to brass tacks, it seemed that she was destined to go against what made sense. Saving them so many times made no sense. Exposing herself, physically and emotionally, to and for him; that made no sense. Maybe it was just Sam Winchester’s effect on her. She hadn’t been able to make sense of anything since the day she left his body.

It wasn’t as if it had been physically different from any other time she possessed a body but mentally it had been extremely different. She had gone in knowing she still had to focus on keeping him shoved down inside when she was working her magic, ignore his thoughts and memories protruding into her thoughts, ignore the Vulcan mind meld that came with possession. It was easy with everyone else she’d ever possessed- thoughts and memories, after the first day, faded and even before then, they were rather uninteresting. Families, friends, childhoods; all of no consequence to her, little importance. The people usually would beg and cry for the first day and then they would surrender, speaking only occasionally. They knew when they were beaten.

She figured Sam would be a bit harder to deal with- he’d know exactly what was happening and he would fight longer, but he’d be like the rest of them. She was so wrong. From the minute she slipped into his skin and took over fully, he was screaming and fighting, enough at times to jar her and make her grip on him slip slightly. A jerk of the hand, a twitch in the leg; he battered against her enough to bring about these small physical slips, and the first time it happened, she stared at his hand in wonder. That never happened. But it would happen, again and again. He fought tooth and nail and she marveled at that. No wonder Lucifer wanted him to be his vessel- he was strong, a mental powerhouse. She was thoroughly convinced that if it hadn’t been for her age and experience, he would’ve been able to kick her out by sheer willpower. He didn’t know when to give up, and he didn’t know when he was beaten.

And it wasn’t just his mental strength; it was the intensity of his emotions. Usually, she simply marveled at the ineffectiveness and stupidity of human emotions; the way they held onto things that meant nothing in the great scheme of things. Their accomplishments and failings often meant nothing to anyone but them, and their emotions clouded their minds and judgment. With Sam, though, seeing inside him didn’t make her scoff at humans, it made her remember what it was like to be one. He didn’t feel things mildly, like most people. His rage was white hot and she could feel it right in his throat- like a bad case of eternal heartburn- burning and squeezing and reminding him of all the injustices he suffered. She could feel his grief in his shoulders and neck, heavy enough to give him a hunch when he wasn’t trying to hold himself together for someone else, the burden of guilt and grief and the knowledge that he was never meant for peace and happiness, that he was a machine of war and nothing else.   
  
She saw memories that were horrible- painful even for her to watch as a third party. And then, there were spaces of endless black where memories once were and were erased to protect himself. He was too young to have those sorts of gaps, those sorts of empty places in his mind, but it seemed for every two memories that he remembered, there was one that was wiped from his mind. She could only imagine the sort of things he had to erase- the things he kept were horrific enough, and as a hunter, it came with the territory of horrific experiences. But those memories interested her- she had been next to Sam for years. Too many years. So long that Azazel took her off the job of watching over him because she was getting too “emotional”, too “attached”. All because she murdered some stupid principal that got Sam into trouble. Then it was left to Brady, and she always sniffed with disdain when she saw him. He didn’t deserve to watch over Sam . He was nothing- a weakling, a grunt; how could Azazel expect him to replace her? After how long she’d been the watcher of the bloodline? She was always there, and he robbed her of that. She never liked Azazel. He was convenient, his arrogance making it easy to manipulate him; his usefulness made him tolerable. But when he replaced her with Brady, sent Brady to look after him, she hated him with every fiber of her being. She despised the demon that took her from him. So she bided her time. She played her part. She looked the other way, and when she saw her opportunity, she took it. Seeing things that she hadn’t witnessed because of Azazel was intensely interesting to her- it was nearly like a parent getting a chance to read their child’s diary while they’re off at camp. She knew she shouldn’t look, but the temptation was too great. She wanted to know. 

But seeing things that she hadn’t witnessed was intensely interesting to her- it was nearly like a parent getting a chance to see what their child is up to when they aren’t at home. She knew she shouldn’t look, but the temptation was too great. She wanted to know.

She regretted that.

She never told Sam how involved she’d been in his life, how long she’d been following him and his kin. She was in Millie Winchester’s bridge club, inside Anne McCormack, a housewife with too much time on her hands and a husband who was more interested in his work and the secretary there, keeping an eye on Henry and his progeny, John- preserving the bloodline. She was Billy Andrews, John’s high school friend. She was Harry Sloe, John’s Platoon sergeant in Vietnam. She was Shoshanna Levine, Mary’s Obstetrician. She was involved in his life, even before he’d even been a twinkle in his mother’s eye. And in his life, when he was a child? Well. She had been too many people to count.

She didn’t think there was ever going to be a good time to bring that up.

It was that attachment to him that made it so hard. Watching the evolution, the process that was thousands of years in the making, every event that led to the birth of Sam Winchester, true vessel of Lucifer, the boy king…something about it was so intimate that somewhere along the way she could feel the empty place that once held a heart begin to pulse and swell. It was easy to fight him physically; easy to assault him and take what she wanted when he was physically in front of her. He was a human, she was a demon. She could replace his face with another’s- someone she hadn’t watched, someone she hadn’t seen birthed into this world, someone she hadn’t watched grow from the shadows.

She was able to separate her feelings for him from him when they were separate- him on one side, her on the other. When she was inside him, however, it was hard to deal with.   
Too close.   
His soul, rattling and fighting, prodding her being. Reminding her every moment that he was there. Like that children’s story about the people on a speck with the elephant- a loud repeated scream, a confirmation, a plea. _  
I am here! I am here! I am here!_   
For days on end- and never did it falter, never did it soften. The same conviction, the same anger, the same volume.   
_I am here! I am here! I am here!_   
That was his strength, and his weakness. The inability to understand when he was beaten. The stubborn refusal to give up.

She didn’t feel anything when she tortured that girl, Jo. Or when she killed any of those hunters. She didn’t give a single shit about any of them, and in reality, other than Jo, Sam didn’t actually give a shit about them either, other than his general bleeding heart for people. He wasn’t personally attached to them. His response to killing them was like anyone else’s. That made it easy. He fought back the hardest when she went after Jo, after Bobby; people that he had a bond with. She could feel her control on his limbs slip as he battered like a ram against her, the _‘I am here!’_ morphing into _‘I will kill you! Don’t you dare!’_   
She could respect that, and part of her was relieved when they forced her out of him, and she ended up back in hell. She didn’t think she was going to be able to hold onto him much longer. If she really wanted to, she could’ve escaped inside Sam. She could’ve broken that devil’s trap. She could’ve burnt the place to the ground with a thought. But the problem remained- Sam and his strength, wearing her away. Being evicted by an exorcism was better, to her, than being kicked out by Sam. She told herself it was pride, but that was a lie. It wasn’t her pride, her vanity that made her surrender- it was her fear. Because if Sam had kicked her out, it would’ve made her question everything much sooner than she did, and even then, some part of her deep inside knew that. And if she had started really questioning back then... She wasn’t sure if Sam would still be alive, because she was mostly sure she wouldn’t be.

She had warned Lucifer about that, but he didn’t listen. She tried to warn him that something about Sam was raw and powerful and different- something that almost no one could handle. She tried to tell him that if he planned on killing Michael in Dean’s body while he was in Sam’s that he was gonna have a hell of a fight- and not just from Michael. He just brushed her off and didn’t listen, and Sam kicked his ass back into that cage and she couldn’t help but feel a twinge of satisfaction when she heard. Of course, Lucifer ending up in the cage basically fucked her royally, but she didn’t care, not really. Now, Sam ending up in the cage? She cared very much about that. If she hadn’t spent all of her time fighting for her life after that, she might’ve slipped into hell and slid through that miniscule portal to the outside of the cage and whispered encouragement and promises of rescue. She might’ve, because somewhere along the way, Lucifer stopped being as important to her. After Carthage, she began to worry about Lucifer’s vessel more often than she worried about her master’s plans. And she began to remember more and more, more than she wanted.

After being inside him, she wanted to keep track of him, closely. He was her only vessel that lived through the experience. She rode her vessels hard, wearing them down quickly, aggressively taking over. No need to make that part last longer than necessary- but with Sam, she never even had the chance. It was a bull ride from the first moment she stepped in. She was holding tight to the reins, just trying to stay in control. She was strong. But he was stronger.

That fascinated her.

She realized with each little detail, each recollection from his mind, with each report from her flunkies about him as they dropped like flies, that her thoughtless, blind fanaticism for Lucifer had been transferred to his vessel. His fascinating, powerful, good-hearted vessel.

When she found out Sam’s soul was trapped in The Cage with Lucifer and Michael, her blood ran cold. The Cage was something she had seen and felt, and knowing Sam was trapped with a wrath she herself had been privy to and on the receiving end of was not only disconcerting, but something that weighed on her every thought. She remembered, more than she wanted, remembered a time before Crowley, before Azazel, before Alistair- she remembered when a different being held the knife. Demonic torture in Hell was all about pain, physical and mental. But she’d been under an angel’s torture before, and she knew that the two were completely different.  
Demons piled pain on pain; despair on despair, until you were numb, until the pain became a part of you, until it twisted you. Angels worked smarter- they liked to toy with their meal, like a cat with a mouse. Bat you around between their paws until you’re nearly dead, and then- open their paws and let you try to scurry away. Let you have some sort of hope. And then, do it again.  
And again.  
**And again.**  
Until their hapless victim couldn’t cry out for help, couldn’t beg, couldn’t even muster the strength to try to get away. Until the light had gone out of their eyes, until their body was as still as death, their stare blank. Until something so deep inside them snapped to pieces and left them unable to do anything more than be an obedient ragdoll, surrendered completely to eternity.  
Demons tortured to change the souls under their hands, to make them like them. Angels tortured to shatter the will, to break the soul. They didn’t want to change anything with their torture, they only want to destroy. Break the will, create an obedient toy. One that cries out when commanded, one that is silent when commanded. The perfect chew toy.  
  
How many times on the run, had she remembered what it was like under his knife, what it was like to feel his rage? How many times did the slightest tremor run up her spine when her thoughts strayed too long on him?

Without his soul, what made him, him, she couldn’t truly keep eye contact with him. She couldn’t bear to look at the husk that was his former glory, devoid of his damnable heart. She marveled at his strength, his cunning; like a well-oiled machine, without the weight of his grief, his guilt to cloud his mind, to slow his body.  
She looked at him and hated what she saw. Crowley didn’t mean that fucking much to her- like she was really there for Crowley. She didn’t need Sam Fucking Winchester to tell her where Crowley was holed up. She needed to see if Sam Fucking Winchester was truly alive, truly walking the earth.  
He wasn’t.

Why else would she have her ear to the ground about his movements? Because she was that bored?

She realized she’d sold whatever was left of her human soul to this giant man-child, and that she was willing to face down anyone for him and his needs. She tried to make deals. She tried to go there herself. And when neither of those things worked, she did the next best thing- she made a deal with Dean and Not-Sam to help them get his soul back. And that sort of energy and focus, that sort of willingness, all for one being, terrified her.

Her devotion to Lucifer was automatic, almost hollow after enough time. She sold her soul and agreed to it, and she owed it to him, even if he had cheated her. The love she had once held for him, the devotion, had waned over the years, until it was more so force of habit rather than true devotion. After she had seen Sam Winchester, Boy King, grow from a child to a man, she couldn’t muster up the same adoration for Lucifer that she once had. She was an obedient dog, cowering in his presence, following his whispered orders through the bars of his cage without hesitation and thought. It was easy to serve Lucifer, in a certain way- she simply shut off her mind and did. She was a dog to him- all she understood was the fist or the boot, scurrying around his table for scraps and bringing him whatever he asked for. There was no right and wrong, it wasn’t her concern to think about. She was a grunt. A soldier. If there was no other reason to continue on and live- if her existence could be called living- there was the reason of Lucifer’s needs. Mindless. Easy. Bigger than herself and her needs and thoughts.

But Sam made her think, made her question, made her start to loathe what she did for Lucifer. Sam made her question if it was all actually worth it, if Lucifer truly deserved her love. He made her feel human, as if she might actually be worth redemption. As if she might actually be able to be redeemed.

It was funny to think that she had functioned a lot like an angel for thousands of years, despite being a demon. It was what Lucifer had liked about her- her unquestioning obedience, her willingness and devotion. She realized that the truly fundamental difference between angels and demons was that demons knew they possessed free will and angels didn’t; and she had thrown away her free will for her master.  
Maybe that’s why she found Cas appealing, and he found her appealing. Maybe it was because they were a lot more alike than different in most ways that counted. The problem she had with Cas, though, was that he used his free will for the stupidest things. Angels like Balthazar and Gabriel and Anna used their free will to get away, isolate themselves and live a life that they wanted, that was worth living. Cas, however, squandered his free will. He stayed and tried to change others, arrogant enough to believe that he could somehow change the way things were. He couldn’t. Neither could she- if demons wanted to grovel at Crowley or Abaddon’s feet because they were too lazy and afraid to use their free will, that wasn’t for her to worry about, she couldn’t change it if she wanted. And why would she want to do that? She only was concerned with one person- herself.

And, of course, that big stupid idiot Sam Fucking Winchester.

She looked up as the door opened, light coming in a wide line across the room. She lifted a hand and shielded her eyes, squinting. The lights clicked on and she had to resist the urge to yell about it, blinking hard. Her eyes adjusted quickly, and Kevin Tran suddenly came into view.

“I brought you some food,” he said, holding out the plate. She resisted the urge to coo at him and his sweetness, keenly aware of the blood’s still-present effects on her. God, when was the last time she cooed at anything without intending for it to be super creepy?  
She decided that she was gonna tell Sam she didn’t want the blood anymore, not if this is what it did to her.  
And then she promptly decided that almost cooing at Kevin was worth it.  
_Typical Addict._

She looked up, raising an eyebrow at Kevin.  
“Hey kid,” she said, sniffing the plate of food that he set down in front of her, “Burgers? Yummy. Dean didn’t make them, did he? Because he probably poisoned it, if he did.”  
Kevin shook his head, his worry clear on his face.  
“No, I made it,” Kevin said, “Dean and Sam are out on a hunt.”  
“A hunt, huh?” she said, picking up the burger and biting into it, “It’s good. Could use a little salt.”  
“I didn’t put any on it. I thought it would burn you,” Kevin said, looking curious.  
“Nope,” she replied, “I mean, if you dumped a salt shaker right on me, yeah. But in food, I have a high tolerance.”  
“Oh,” Kevin said, looking a bit put out. She laughed a little, patting his leg.  
“It’s good, kid,” she said, “Thanks. I don’t actually need to eat, but eating is nice.” She took another bite, closing her eyes and savoring the food in her mouth. She let out a happy sigh, looking back up at the prophet.

“Okay,” she said, “I can tell that you feel guilty. So what’s the burger bribing me for?”  
“I have some translations for you,” Kevin said, handing her a paper and a crayon. She picked up the crayon, lifting an eyebrow.  
“A crayon, are you fucking serious?” she asked. Kevin shrugged.  
“Dean said not to give you anything sharp,” Kevin explained, “He said you might kill me.”  
“Honey, you unshackled me. If I wanted to kill you, I wouldn’t need a pen to do it.”  
“You said you wouldn’t kill me,” Kevin said. Meg nodded, taking another bite of the burger.  
“Yup. So next time, bring me a pen. I won’t tell if you don’t,” she said, winking, “Now, let’s see what you’ve brought me. What fantastic tablet is this from?”  
“The angel tablet,” he replied. She held her hand out for the paper.  
“How the hell do you even translate that thing, anyways?”  
“I actually have no freaking clue,” Kevin admitted sheepishly, “It’s not exactly a science.” She nodded, pursing her lips as her eyes scanned the page.  
“This is Phoenician,” she said feeling that dull throb in her chest, “And it’s…it’s pretty damn good, Kid.”  
“Really?”  
“Really really,” she muttered as she squinted, reading the cuneiform scribbles that Kevin had translated from the tablet, breathing deeply. She focused, remembering her mother tongue, a language she was sure she’d long since forgotten.  
  
“It’s a...” she snapped her fingers, trying to find the English word she was looking for, “Recipe? Spell. It’s a spell.”  
Kevin leaned forward, looking at what she was circling and crossing out, amazed that she had translated the cuneiform so quickly.  
“For what?” he asked excitedly. She pressed her fingers to her temples, rubbing furiously.  
“Reading one language and speaking in another is really hard,” she snapped, “Gimme a sec.”  
“Sorry,” Kevin said quickly, scooting back. She frowned, raising an eyebrow.  
“It’s for closing a, ah, door…gate…something like that,” she said, “It’s…ingredients.”  
“Ingredients?”  
“Yeah. Um, soul of a nephilim….cupid’s bow…grace of a Seraph,” she mumbled, “Wait- that’s how Cas became human. That dick Metatron stole his grace.”  
“Woah,” Kevin said, leaning over the paper, “Wait, so do you think that the gate it was supposed to close…was heaven? And that’s why the angels fell?”  
“Best as I can see from this,” she replied, “Good work, short stack. You figured out the million dollar question.”  
“No, I didn’t,“ he sighed, putting his head in his hands, “The million dollar question is how to reverse the spell, not what it was.”

Meg felt a twinge of sympathy for the young prophet. He was obviously busting his hump trying to figure this shit out, but he was fighting an uphill battle and obviously scared of disappointing Sam and Dean.

“Kevin,” she said firmly, “You do realize that most prophets get 40 years of training before they even get a chance to look at those damn rocks, right? You are literally doing someone that no living being has ever done before. So while you’re sitting there, feeling guilty and beating yourself up, you are the most amazing prophet that has ever lived. If all the prophets were as smart and as driven as you, well. The world would be a much better place.”  
Kevin sniffled, rubbing the heel of his palm against his eyes, trying to hide his tears.  
“Really?” he asked. She nodded, giving him a grin.  
“Really really, kiddo,” she said, “Like I said- the world would be a lot less of a turning shit heap if more prophets were like you.”

Kevin nodded slowly, and her heart went out to him- with his red eyes and runny nose, he looked like a toddler who just fell on the sidewalk.  
“Um, Meg?” Kevin said quietly, “Can I, uh, ask you something?”  
She had braced herself for this question, braced herself for the disappointment that’d be on his face.  
“Sure thing. But remember, I’m just a lil old demon, not a crystal ball,” she replied. Kevin nodded, playing with the crayon between his fingers.  
“Where is my mom?”

Meg winced, not looking at him. She hadn’t braced herself well enough, apparently.

“I don’t know for sure,” she said slowly, “But if I had to hazard a guess…Crowley would have her. He wants leverage with you. Your mom is the biggest bargaining chip on the table.”  
“But she’s not dead?” he asked hopefully, perking up. She looked away, folding her arms across her chest.  
“I’m not saying that,” she said honestly, “I don’t know if she’s still alive. But I do know that if she is, Crowley would have her in a hidey hole somewhere.”  
“How do you know that?”  
“Because that’s what I would do if I was in his shoes. It’s the most logical thing to do.”

Kevin frowned, sighing thoughtfully. He nodded to himself, standing up.  
“Then I need to find her,” he said simply. She jumped up, moving to go after him but was unable to leave the devil’s trap on the floor. Goddamnit- if she knew this was gonna be his reaction, she wouldn’t have said anything…  
“Kevin!” She yelled, stopping him at the door, “Can you please come back and have a conversation with me? I really don’t want to have to bust these devil’s traps. The big boys will have my ass for that.”  
Kevin looked back at her over his shoulder, frowning.  
“Why?” he asked, “You’re just going to say the same thing they’d say. That they need me to translate the tablets, that this isn’t just about me.”  
She immediately shook her head.  
“No, fuck that. What do I look like, a Winchester?” she replied, grimacing, “I’m gonna tell you that tablet be damned, you’re ready to go Rambo when you don’t even have any straight facts. I’m telling you that was just a guess- I don’t even know if your mom is alive and I don’t know any of Crowley’s little storage lockers. Come on, you’re smarter than that. I don’t care if you never look at those tablets again, but running off on a suicide mission with no idea what’s waiting for you is not Advanced Placement thinking, boyo.”

Kevin turned back to face her, closing the door and leaning against it.  
“That’s my mom out there,” he said, “I have to try.”  
“Look, Short Round,” she said, sitting on the table with her legs crossed, “Your mom wouldn’t want you going after her, guns blazing, when you have no idea where she is or what’s protecting her- and yeah, I said what, not who. Crowley likes keeping hellhounds lying around for jobs like that. Unless you want one of those invisible nightmares slicing your cute little ass up like a pepperoni pizza, you need to do some research, gather some intel. Play spy.”  
“But how?” Kevin moaned, his frustration evident, “They won’t let me leave. They won’t let me do anything but eat, sleep, go to the bathroom and translate the tablets. And I think if Dean had his way, I wouldn’t be doing the first three things either.”  
“Dean’s a panty waste,” she snorted derisively, “Put your ear to the ground, get some outside help. I bet that Charlie chick would give you a hand if you pretended to be Sam.”  
“You think I can do that?”  
“I know you can,” she said, “It’s either that or you get me the hell out of here and we go on a best friend adventure to find her.”  
“No,” Kevin said quickly, “I don’t want to do that.”  
“Awesomesauce,” she replied, sliding off the table and sitting back down in the chair, “Then use that big old brain for something other than becoming America’s first Asian American president.”


	5. Chapter 5

“So.”

Meg looked up, a wide smile spreading across her face. It had been a few days since her conversation with Kevin, and it seemed that Sam was finally home from whatever hunt he was on.

“Oh Sam, I missed you, working hard all day to bring home the bacon,” she exclaimed in a cheesy, high pitched voice, “You’re just in time for dinner and the game.”  
“That’s creepy,” Sam replied with a smirk, “Funny, but really creepy.”  
“I try,” she replied, smiling sweetly at him and batting her eyes, “So, how was your little game of run catch kill?”  
“I’m not here to talk about that,” Sam said, sighing, “It was a hunt.”  
“A bit defensive there, are we?” She asked, “Come on, give me all the gory details.”  
“No,” Sam replied, shaking his head, “I didn’t come down here to talk about hunts. If I wanted to talk about hunts, I’d talk to Dean.”  
“Fair enough,” she replied, sitting back in her chair and propping her feet up on the table, “Then what did you come here to talk about?”  
“What do you think?” he snapped.  
“Testy,” she tsked, “I’m trapped down here, and as entertaining as it is for you to hear all about my incredibly interesting and riveting backstory, its old news to me. I lived it. So asking for some news every once in a while isn’t a crime.”  
“Fine,” Sam replied, “It rained for a few days.”  
“Wow,” Meg snorted, “I feel so fucking worldly now.”  
“Maria Sharipova won the Madrid Open.”  
“Why would you even know that?”  
“I like tennis,” he replied, shrugging, “Now do you feel worldly?”  
“I guess that’s as close as I’m gonna get,” she replied, rolling her eyes.

“There was one thing I wanted to talk to you about,” Sam said, tapping his fingers on the table top, “Someone was using one of my burner emails, asking Charlie to help find Kevin’s mom. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

Meg folded her hands, putting them on the table top and smiling innocently. She should’ve known that Sam would at least find out- it wasn’t saying anything about Kevin, it was just saying something about Sam. Like the fact that he didn’t trust anyone around him. Kevin was a little genius, just as much as Sam. If Kevin missed something, then Sam hid it deep. Or maybe Kevin was a lot dumber than she gave him credit for. Who knows? She wasn’t exactly tech savvy.

“Now how would I know anything about that?” she asked, batting her eyes, “I’ve been down here in the devil’s trap like a good girl.”  
Sam grimaced at her, rolling his eyes. Like he thought that she was actually dumb enough to think he believed her.

“Someone had to give him the idea,” he said firmly.  
“Me? Why Sam, I’m hurt,” she replied, “Here I am, being a good little prisoner and you would dare impugn my honor!”  
“So, that’s a yes.”  
“I would never tell dear sweet Kevin to go behind your back to fulfill his own needs.”  
“So that’s a hell yes.”  
“I just pushed him in the right direction,” she replied, “Pushed is even too strong a verb. More like nudged.”  
“You can’t do that,” Sam sighed, looking worried, “Look, I know that he’s worried about Linda, we all are, but-“  
“But what, Sam?” she asked, folding her arms, “What, you could take a few months off to go find your good for nothing Daddy but Kevin can’t send out a few emails trying to find his mother?”  
“That’s not what I meant,” Sam replied sheepishly, his face flushing red. She leaned forward, tapping her fingertips of the table, mirroring Sam’s pose.  
“Yes, it is. The rules that apply to you and Dean apparently don’t apply to anyone else. Haven’t you ever thought that might be why no one likes dealing with you two? Because of the infamous Winchester double standard?”  
“What double standard?” Sam asked, eying her curiously.

Meg huffed, her lips pressed in a thin line. It was a good thing he was so pretty, because he was so _spectacularly_ stupid at times.

“Do you ever actually think about how many families you and your brother have killed and destroyed?” she asked, “How many orphans are out there because of you? How many siblings and friends and parents and children have you killed without a second thought?”

There was heavy silence between them, Sam’s lips pursed and his body folding in on itself, as if he could fold himself up like a piece of paper and disappear. She almost regretted the way she had presented the question, but only almost. For all of Sam’s good qualities, he tended to be just as bad as anyone else when it came to wake up calls. They had to be swift and brutal with no regrets, or he wouldn’t take it seriously. He appeared to be ready to respond to her question, lifting his head.

“No,” Sam replied honestly, “I actively try to avoid thinking about that.”  
“But when I went after your dad, it was okay to try to kill me.”  
“That’s not fair, and you know it.”  
“Why not?” she asked, “You found out that Azazel called me his daughter and I called him my father. But you were happy as a clam to destroy our little family. Even though your father had been trying to kill Azazel for years. Even though your mother and her family had been trying for years, too.”  
“He wasn’t your family.”  
“You just learned that not so long ago. Don’t play stupid.”

Sam sighed, running his fingers through his hair, frustrated. She was right, of course- he didn’t know that then, but it seemed like such a bad example. She hated Azazel, she hated Brady, and now she hated Lucifer. All the people in her so called “family” that he killed, she was happy to see go. So what difference would it make if there was a double standard? He knew it was the wrong way of looking at it, but he honestly didn’t want to think about this issue any deeper than he had to. It wasn’t fair that he was always the one getting hit with the hard questions about morality and fairness- why did it seem like no one ever confronted Dean? Why was he always the bad guy?  
He found himself growing more indignant the more he thought about it. Why should he be sorry? He killed Brady, yeah, and he locked Lucifer up, but Dean was the one that killed Azazel, and anyways, Azazel killed his mother! Why should he care? An eye for an eye, that’s how he was raised. That was how Meg functioned. She was just being a hypocrite, as usual. Maybe Dean was right about her.

“What do you want me to say, Meg?” he demanded, “I’m sorry for Dean killing Azazel? Because I’m not. I’m not sorry for Dean killing him and I’m not sorry for killing Brady and I’m not even remotely sorry for throwing Lucifer back in the cage. I’m sorry that you want to pretend that you were on the losing end of all that, that you want to pretend that your family was destroyed, but it’s just an act. It was my real family or your pretend family. I’m not going to give in to this stupid little game.”  
“ _I’m sorry you’re mad, but I’m not sorry at all for what I did_ ,” she said, smirking, “I think me and Dean-o are having a bad effect on you, Sammy.”  
“If it’s good enough for you two, why isn’t it good enough for me?” he snapped.  
“Because it’s not good enough for us either,” Meg said testily, standing up and pointing her finger in his face, “The point is that you were willing to go to the ends of the earth for your father who sucked ass and you’re willing to go even further for your brother who, some days, sucks even more ass than your father, but you won’t give a kid whose mother was always there for him and always took care of him the same chance.”

“Get your finger out of my face,” Sam growled.  
“Why?” She demanded, digging the tip of her finger into his forehead hard, “Does that bother you?”  
He swatted her finger away, taking a deep breath. She was testing his patience and she was doing on purpose. She was trying to get a rise out of him, just like Dean always did, and he refused to play her game.  
“Yes, now stop,” he said calmly.  
She reached over and did it again, harder. He jerked away again, his jaw tightening and his hand reaching out to slap hers away as his irritation became clear on his face.  
“Why’s that bother you so much?’ She asked, dodging his hand and poking him again, “Huh? Why’s that bother you? What, you wanna focus on that instead of why you’re really mad?”  
“What’s really making me mad is you fucking poking me,” Sam snapped, “Now stop, you’re acting like a two year old.”  
“Come on, get in touch with your inner Id, Sammy. If you don’t wanna act like a grown up and deal with the real problem, why don’t you deal with the problem of me pissing you off? I can see it in your face. You wanna break my finger, don’t you?” she wiggled her finger under his nose, flicking it as he leaned away, “Go ahead, Sammy. Break it. It’s okay to break it because you’re a Winchester and I’m a demon. Go on, you won’t get in trouble. Dean will probably congratulate you.”  
“Stop,” Sam said loudly, his whole body tense. She was making her point very effectively, but it was kicking Sam’s guilt into high gear. He knew that they played a little too fast and loose, and by a little, he meant a lot. He knew that the line between right and wrong got blurred so many times along the way. But he didn’t need some demon poking him and goading him on, like she wanted him to hurt her. It just made him feel sick to his stomach.  
  
“It’s okay, the rules say you can hurt me,” she said softly, leaning down close to him, “The rules say that you can do whatever you want and no one else can. Not me, not Kevin,” She pressed her finger against his temple, “I can’t break your finger, but you can break mine. Kevin can’t look for his mom, but you could look for your daddy.”  
“That’s enough, Meg,” Sam said warningly, his hands clenching into fists, “You’ve made your point.”  
“Have I, though?” she demanded, pushing his head to the side with her finger, “After all, the rules say that I don’t have a point.”  
“Stop, now,” Sam pleaded, frustrated with the weakness in his voice. Like he was begging her to stop- which he was, honestly.  
“Come on, Sammy. You’ve always played by the rules before, why are you suddenly getting cold feet?” She said loudly, “It’s just my finger, it’s not like it won’t heal abnormally fast anyways. You don’t wanna break my finger but you’re willing to kill things like me without a second thought?” She jabbed her finger into his chest, ”Come on, show me how much of your father is really in you.”

Sam reached out, grabbing Meg’s wrist and twisting it behind her back, slamming her down against the table. She let out a soft gasp as the wind got knocked out of her, slumping against the table, feeling the way Sam’s hands shook as their grip loosened, but his weight remained pressed against her. He was breathing hard, his body trembling, his heart racing, his muscles tense...

“I told you that’s enough!” he yelled, breathing heavily as his weight pressed her against the table, “Why do you always have to push so hard? Why can’t you just let things go?”  
She laughed a little, turning her head to the side, her cheek pressed against the smooth metal surface.  
“Because I don’t know how to do that. You haven’t told me why it’s okay,” she said, looking up at him, “Why it’s okay for you to do certain things but not Kevin? Why it’s okay for Dean to do certain things, but not me?”  
“It’s not, okay?” He yelled, releasing her and stepping back, “It’s not okay. Kevin deserves the chance to look for his mom, I know that, but he could get hurt, he could get killed-“  
“And then who will translate your precious rocks,” she said, pushing herself up from the table and smoothing her hair, “Right?”  
“No-“  
“Then why don’t you help him? Why don’t you and your idiot brother help him go looking for his mom and kick the ass of anything that stands in your way? What, is his mother not worth that kind of effort? Of all the people on this shitty fucking rock, I would imagine that you and Dean know something pretty intimate about losing a mother.”

Sam turned away from her, rubbing his temples frantically. He didn’t need this right now. He didn’t need this on top of Dean being weird and Kevin having one foot out the door and Crowley in the wind and Abaddon on the move. Not only didn’t he need this, he was pretty sure he couldn’t handle it either.

“We have other stuff going on,” he argued desperately, “And Kevin understands-“  
“It doesn’t matter if he understands, which no, you’re an absolute idiot, he doesn’t,” she snapped, sitting back down, “You think you and your brother are the only ones who have ever loved someone so much that you would do anything to save them, to make them happy? You think a kid as smart as Kevin doesn’t see straight through you and Dean? If it doesn’t serve the Winchester agenda, then it’s not worth your time. That includes people- innocent people.”

Sam sighed, sitting back down and rubbing his face. That was the worst thing, he decided, about arguing with Meg. It didn’t matter how much of a hypocrite she was being- she knew that she was right, or she wouldn’t argue about it seriously. That’s how she won every argument- she only argued what she knew she would be right about, what she could win. And she knew that she had literally and figuratively shoved her finger in a very sore spot for him.

“If you want me to help Kevin, I will,” Sam said, “If that’s what the point of this is.”  
  
“You are so _painfully_ stupid sometimes,” she said, staring at him, “It’s not just about Kevin, about me, you idiot. You go through life clinging to the idea that your enemies have never had cause or reason for anything they have ever done or wanted. You go through life ignoring the why when you should be asking about it every time you go on a hunt. Do you think that all demons wanted to be demons? Werewolves, vampires, ghosts, you think that they all wanted to be on the wrong end of your moral code? You need to open your eyes. The world isn’t black and white, Samuel Winchester. Not even your father’s moral code can make it that way.”  
“Just like you, right?” Sam asked, staring at her evenly, “You didn’t want to be a demon, but I’m gonna assume you made a deal to make someone happy and that’s how it happened, am I right?”  
“Oh, shove your condescension up your ass,” she snapped, “Not everything that anyone ever says to you is seeking pity.”  
“Well, it sounds like a pretty pitiful excuse for how you’ve been in the past,” he replied. Meg looked up at him, her lips pressed in an even line.

“Just like not everything anyone says is fishing for pity, not everything I say is an explanation for what I am. I don’t need to explain what I am, how I am. I’m not sorry for the people I’ve killed, the lives I’ve destroyed. Because unlike you, I don’t need to stick to some fragile code to make it okay in my head, to help me sleep at night. I do it because I’m evil, and it doesn’t matter. Demon, monster, angel or human, I kill them all equally. Murdering one or the other doesn’t make me feel any better or worse. It just is,” she paused, licking her lips, “Don’t fool yourself into thinking that I’m preaching to you. Do as I say, not as I do, whatever bullshit. It’s not about that. It’s about making you see through the lies you’ve been spoon fed by your father and brother. Either all lives matter or none of them do. Acting like your father’s life was more important than Kevin’s mother’s life is just as bad as acting like neither of their lives matter. At least my way treats everyone as equals.”  
“That’s a fucked up way of looking at it.”  
“Hi, I’m Meg. I’m a demon.”

Sam let out a laugh, shaking his head. She was something else. Just about everyone around him preached, ‘do as I say, not as I do’ but Meg seemed content to tell him to do as she did, even if they both knew it was wrong. She was always openly challenging not only his code, but her own- she didn’t seem to care if it made her look bad. She only seemed to care about making her point. That was something that he hated in Dean, but fascinated him in her.

“Alright. Kevin’s mom is as important as my dad was,” Sam said, “I’ll help him.”  
“As a start,” she said sharply. He nodded, lifting his hands in defeat.  
“Yeah, as a start,” Sam conceded, “Why do you care so much about Kevin?”  
“He’s a good kid. There aren’t humans like him.”  
“What do you mean?”  
“He’s genuine. He doesn’t know how to be any other way. People, and especially Prophets, aren’t that way. He’s a real, genuinely innocent human,” she laughed in a defeated way, “You know that kid has been coming down here, bringing me food, offering me things to make me feel more comfortable-“ she held out her wrists, “He got me out of those fucking restraints, even though Dean tried to convince him that the reason why you didn’t finish the trials was me. That I attacked you. That’s a special kind of stupid. The innocent kind.”

Sam pursed his lips, processing what she said, the defeated tone of her voice, the surrender in her body.   
“You don’t like that,” he said, his words measured, “You don’t like how innocent he is, that you can’t find anything wrong with him. You don’t know how to deal with that.”  
“Yes, I do know how to deal with that,” she replied, “You protect it. Humans suck. I don’t like humans, I hate demons, and I sure as fucking shit hate angels. But he’s better than all of them. And he’s just a kid- that’s what makes him better than all of them. He’s innocent even though he’s been fucked over and over again by life. He still believes that there’s something good in even the worst things,” she paused, “Like you.”  
“Like me?” Sam asked, looking flabbergasted.  
“Yeah, like you,” she snapped, “I mean, look at you. What has the world ever done for Sam Winchester? What has humanity done for you- for that matter, what have I done for you, huh? Yet here you are. You tried to save the world, and now you’re still trying to save me. So you tell me. Why do I care about kids like Kevin?”

Sam didn’t know what to say, what to respond with. He didn’t quite know why yet, but he knew that if he was ever going to know, he needed the rest of the story- her story.

“Is there any way I can get to the next part of the story?” he asked.  
“Only if you have the magic wand,” she replied, “Let me see.”

He withdrew the empty syringe, setting it on the table between them, as if it were gun. The silence was heavy between them, measured.

“Tell me the story,” Sam said firmly.

“So, where were we?” she said softly, “Oh, yes.”

* * *

 

She hid in the tent, curled in a tight ball. There was no time, no presences around her, there was nothingness. Losing her son, her sweet child, her first, had done something to her; the same thing it did to many women who had felt Death’s sting in place of joy.

She felt the tent begin to warm as night ebbed away and gave way to the sun, Tirzah rising from its sleep as she lay still as a corpse. She didn’t want to rise ever again. What was the point? She was broken, her womb toxic to life. The miscarriages she never spoke of haunted the back of her mind, whispering despair. Ahav would kill her, or worse- he would send her back to Tyre, in disgrace.

She curled tighter into a ball, the tears running steadily down her face. It was this place, this land. It was cursed, wretched, and Ba’al was not there. It robbed her of her dreams, of her hopes, of her innocence. Now, it had robbed her of her son. She was alone, and no one could save her here. Not from her husband’s wrath, not from Death’s icy grasp. She was truly, spiritually alone.

She longed for the gentle cradle of clean ocean water, to wash away her grief and pain, to carry her into the arms of Astarte. It had been so long, it felt like ages, since she had felt the rejuvenation of cool waves on her ankles, crisp air ruffling her hair like a mother’s comb. Here there was nothing but heat and dirt and rock and sand, tepid water that had been shared by beast and man. She closed her eyes, wishing that Ba’al would release her from her torment.

“Where is my son!” she heard Ahav’s voice boom out, “Where is my victorious Izevel!”  
“Ahav, my lord,” she heard Ishah’s hushed voice say, “We must talk.”  
“Not until I see my child,” Ahav said, trying to push past the women who had positioned themselves in front of the entrance to the tent, like a blockade to protect Ahav’s newest and youngest wife. She felt another surge of pure love for these women, who defied their future king just to protect her- a woman, and a worthless one at that. What good was she if she couldn’t produce a living son?

“What do you mean?” she heard Ahav roar, shoving past the women and throwing open the tent, entering a sacred place- one which men were not to enter. She looked up at him with terror, scooting back across the floor desperately as he strode forward with purpose, seizing her shoulders and shaking her hard.

“So, this is what Ethbaal gives me? A murderous womb attached to hands that have never seen a day of work? This is what he thinks is a fair trade?” he bellowed, “Speak and still my hand, Izevel, lest my temper take my wits!”  
Her body trembled with fear and grief, her whole body bowed away from him. This was not a prince. This was not a king. This was nothing more than an angry, vengeful man, who saw her as nothing but a field to plant heirs within.  
“I…” she began, only to be shoved from his hands, as if she were filthy. He grimaced, looking down at her with contempt as he rubbed his hands against his clothes. As if by touching her, he had made himself dirty. She scrambled to her knees, her hands clasped and wringing in desperation. _Let him take my head, let him beat me and leave me to die, but do not let him leave me in this torment alone,_ she prayed silently.

“My lord,” she pleaded, reaching out and grabbing the edge of his cloak.  
“You have brought death into my bloodline!” he exploded, rounding on her and kicking her hand away, “A dead son is a curse, a sign of things to come, and you can only think to crawl on your belly, like a snake, begging for forgiveness!”  
“It is not forgiveness I ask, my lord,” she cried, holding his ankle desperately, “I ask only that you end my suffering, my lord, please!”  
“End your suffering?” he bellowed, his hand on the hilt of his sword, “How dare you-“

Ishah ran in, grabbing his arm. She threw her arms around it, pressing her forehead to his arm, her hands and lips a flurry over his bronze skin.

“My lord, I beg of you, you must still your anger-“ she begged, only to be rounded on.  
“I speak not to you, woman!” he bellowed, shoving her away, “I speak to my other wife, my worthless wife, the one who cannot bring forth one living child!” Ishah stumbled back to the ground, looking between her furious husband and his frightened younger wife.  
“What shall we do now, woman?” he growled, “Should I lay with you again, lest your womb wither and destroy what seed I have? We had a covenant, made on Ba’al’s headway, that you would produce me sons. You have produced nothing! Nothing but a dead body!”

“My lord, please,” Ishah said, taking his hand and kissing it, “She has not bled long, and the first birth is always hardest, let her try again.”  
“Try again? I need an heir now!” he yelled, tearing his hand from Ishah’s grasp, “Two wives who produce me no sons- what am I to do? Do you not understand, woman? I am breaths away from victory, from what I and my father have fought so hard for, and I cannot complete this battle because Ethbaal’s useless whelp of a daughter cannot produce me one living son? Let her try, ha! We have seen what good her trying has done!”

He turned and stomped towards the tent flap, his rage still clear in his entire form. Izevel scurried forward on her hands and knees, reaching out for him.

“Ahav!” she cried out, “Please!”

He looked at her over his shoulder, anger still in his eyes.

“You will address me as Your Lord,” he said sharply, “For I am lord and master of this household and you will show me respect- even if I was mistaken in marrying a spoilt, shameful Phoenician whelp such as yourself.”

 

With that, he was gone, and Tirzah fell into somber silence. Ishah pulled Izevel into her arms, stroking her hair as the younger woman cried out her pain. She knew the pain well- after Athaliah, there were no living children to speak of, and she had faced Ahav’s wrath in the face of dead children before. She knew the way it tore a woman open, left her raw and flayed and vulnerable to disease, to unending sadness, to the wrath of her husband. Many women died during childbirth, many more died shortly after- bleeding from a mortal wound left by her husband; either by his seed or his sword.

“This too shall pass,” she said softly, “Ahav’s anger will wane and you will try again. Do not despair.”  
“How can I not?” Izevel sobbed, “I have brought death into his bloodline- first the ones I lost inside, and now this! The death of a first born son! I am cursed, broken, unclean. I was not made whole.”  
"There were...others?" Ishah asked slowly. Izevel hid her face in shame, nodding.  
"I was afraid to tell," she whispered, "I thought it would be different this time..." She burst into fresh sobs, curling tighter in a ball. What could she do? What could anyone do?

Ishah gave up, leaving the broken woman to her sadness. She didn’t know what to tell her- that her son was in a better place? That now he was free of such a cruel world that killed sons more often than daughters? That she too had given birth to dead children, but never sons? That Ahav’s anger had never been so full and awful as it had been towards her?  
She had no comfort to give.  
Besides, she had her own growing doubts. How did a girl of healthy constitution miscarry and then lose her first born son, an infant who looked to be perfect and healthy besides his lack of breath? There had been many still births in Tirzah and Ishah had seen them all, but none looked as Izevel’s did. The child showed signs of deterioration, of deformation. Feet turned wrong, limbs missing, malformed bodies; but none of that presented in Izevel’s child. It was the first time that she said that a child was born asleep, and she actually understood the phrase. Because the child did simply look asleep- as if a gentle kiss to his head would bring him to life.

She was afraid not only for Izevel, but for herself and Athaliah. If the girl couldn’t birth a son, things for all of them would turn bad quickly. Now more than ever, they needed a male heir, a son to solidify Omri's line, to guarantee the strength of Ahav's house. She had no time to comfort her husband’s younger wife. She needed to stay his rage, and soothe his malcontent; jobs that Izevel had taken from her at first, but were left to her now.  
  
She stood, leaving Izevel to her mourning. Her responsibility as a wife and mother superseded her duty as a friend.

Nita, on the other hand, was not satisfied with simply allowing Izevel her grieving and doing whatever could be done to soothe the commander’s and his father’s anger. Men were perpetually angry creatures, this she knew. They were always angry unless sated by the warmth of a woman’s touch or by the warmth of another man's blood. Ahav would forget, would recover; but his young bride, a tender little filly, would not. The grief of losing her child could seal a woman’s womb forever, and such a thing would be a death sentence. A woman who could bear no sons was a woman without purpose in the houses of men like Ahav- even the pleasure they gave paled in comparison to the value of sons. Israel lived, breathed, and died upon its sons. A man without sons was cursed, and a future king without sons, doubly so.  
She knew that Izevel would bear no living children; not in her current state. She had a way of knowing these things- which ewes were fertile, which springs would dry up- and she knew the spring of Izevel’s womb ran too thin to sustain the life of a child.  
  
And without Izevel's womb, Ahav would have no sons to carry his line, to solidify his house and right to rule.

She pitied the girl, knowing that there were only two options- send her to the hills to call upon Ba’al for his blessing, or reveal to her the curse that was laid upon her by nature, by the Gods. There were no illusions, the girl clearly knew something was not right...yet she couldn't bring herself to say the words; no one could. To say the words made it real.  
  
She liked the little princess from Tyre- she found her insufferable at first;  a whining, petulant girlchild- but she had learned and adapted, and she was happy to call her sister, along with Elia and Tamar and Ishah. And there was another thread that drew her to the Commander’s younger wife- they both worshiped the great Lord Ba’al. For years, since the arrival of Omri and Ahav and their men, she practiced her worship in secret. It was not as though worshiping Ba’al was truly looked down upon, for many throughout Israel did so with fervor- the people of Abraham did not share his fervor, his dedication to but one God. But Ahav and Omri were warlords, and the Warlords of Israel always worshiped YHWH above all others. YHWH was the conqueror. YHWH was the warrior god. YHWH did not bring rain, nor did he bring plenty. He brought land and power, while Ba’al and YHWH’s Asherah brought life. She knew the rituals of Tyre, of Sidon, having learnt them from her own mother. She knew how to summon the Great Lord to one of his faithful in times of great need, but the cost was great- much greater than many would be willing to pay. But she knew- Izevel was not like many. She was stronger. The people of Israel were like the land- hardened, wizened, brittle. But Izevel was like the sea of her home; uncompromising, unrestrained, comforting and still one moment and a force to be reckoned with the next. Nita could see inside this girl and see that there was a great future in store for her, a story that would be passed down for years to come. It was this revelation that led her to her decision to help the Commander's child bride.

She went off home with the excuse to rest, leaving Tamar to guard the tent as she gathered what she needed. This was not the first time she sent a barren woman out into the wilds to find Ba'al, but never had he bestowed a gift on them, to many he never even appeared. But Nita knew- this, this was the time it would happen. There was something about this time that felt right.  Perhaps it was because Izevel was truly his acolyte- royal families in Tyre and Sidon were always high priests and priestesses to Ba'al and the Lady Astarte. Perhaps it was Izevel's will; seeing it so completely when she looked in Nita's arms for her son, her wild and desperate cries to Ba'al for her son to take breath.  
It was a moment Nita knew she would never forget- that such a small thing could summon such a demand with anger and pain and authority; as though she were the master of the fertility god herself. It was not as if she didn't beg- her begging was clear, but it was also angry, demanding, cursing.

_My baby! My son!_

Yes, this time she was sure Ba'al would come.

From her precious and ancient stores, she withdrew a satchel of frankincense, lifting the resin chunks to her nose and inhaling deeply. It smelled of her youth, of home, before she came here. She was sad to part even with the slightest bit of her store, but she had to, for the commander’s little wife. She dropped two of the resin pieces in a small satchel, adding three quail feathers and three pieces of polished bone from a bull. She sighed, looking from the bag to her chest in indecision. She could just...put these things back. No one would know, least of all Izevel. After all, everyone did have a habit of telling her she meddled too much...  
No. This was necessary. This was important, she could feel it in her old bones.  
  
She sprinkled it all with juniper oil, murmuring a quick prayer.

She moved through the crowded paths of Tirzah with the bag clutched tight to her chest, her eyes darting around. She did not want to waste time, to allow this opportunity to slip by. There would be no other time that the girl could leave the village without notice, without being stopped. No other time would she be able to go alone, and that was the requirement. She and she alone had to make the journey. She and she alone had to bear the burden. She and she alone had to summon Ba'al.  
The women of Tirzah moved out of her way quickly, seeing the intense look in her eyes. When Nita moved with purpose, the only reason could be serious business, and no one wanted to interfere with the old woman’s business- to do so could mean death for whomever she was on her way to reach. That was one great benefit of her old age, she decided. She could meander for hours and no one would speak against her, often under the impression that she must be contemplating some great wisdom in her old age, yet she could also dash like a madwoman, pushing those in her path out of her way, and still no one would speak against her, under the impression that she was moving with intent greater than they could comprehend. The creaking bones, the aches and pains, that was the price of the freedom of the elderly, but it was a price that Nita felt was well worth it. 

She came upon the tent where Tamar, the youngest of the midwives of Tirzah, sat dozing, her head bobbing up and down as she forced her eyes open. Nita's heart went out to the young woman- a child and husband at home, yet here she was, awake all night and with no hope of much more than a nap when she was sent on her way, if she was lucky.

“Tamar,” she called out, beckoning the woman close. Tamar glanced around before leaving her post.  
“What is it, Nita?” she asked in a hushed tone, “I shouldn’t leave the tent- Ishah is worried that Izevel may try to hurt herself, or worse yet- she may try to run off.”  
“Go, rest,” Nita said soothingly, rubbing the woman’s shoulders, “I shall watch over the commander’s wife. I have slept, and I feel good as new. You need rest, Binyamin will wake soon, and will need you.”  
“Really? I can stay and look after her if need be, but you’re right…I am so tired,” she said hesitantly. Nita gave her a sympathetic smile, shooing her. She supposed some extra good would come of this- her dear friend would be able to rest her tired body, even for a short time, before life went on as usual.  
“Off you go, then. Rest. I will have no troubles with her,” she said reassuringly, watching as Tamar started off to her home, no doubt already dreaming of her pallet. She looked around quickly, relieved to see that no one had any real interest in the tent and the person inside, throwing open the tent flap and pulling it shut quickly.

She could see the shape of Izevel, curled up on the blankets where she had given birth, unbothered by the rest of the world- too involved in her pain. Her pity flared again, her hand squeezing tighter around the bag. This was good, right. This was necessary.  
She crept over, her bony hand wrapping around her shoulder and shaking her gently.

 “Ize,” she said softly, “Ize, wake, girl.”  
“I’m awake,” she said softly, not moving, “How could I sleep, unless it were to sleep forever? I wish I could just close my eyes and all of this would be gone.”  
“Many wish the same,” Nita replied grimly, pulling her upright, “But we never go until it is our time.”  
“It’s not my time, but it was my son’s time?” she asked, close to tears again, “Where is the justice in that?”  
Nita sighed, shaking her head. A valid question, if she ever heard one, but a question that none had the answer to.

“I have no answers to that question,” she said, “But I have an answer to your current predicament.”  
“How?” Izevel demanded, life suddenly surging through her, the color returning to her previously sallow face, “Tell me!”  
Nita chuckled softly, pushing the satchel she had prepared into her hand, her voice low.  
“Take this, and a fat lamb. Bury this under the cypress tree where we rest when we pick herbs. You must pray to Ba’al, that he might answer you.”  
“Ba’al cares not for the affairs of humans,” she wept bitterly, turning away from her, “How will this help? He didn’t hear my prayers when I was giving birth!”  
“I have not finished your instructions,” she said firmly, “When you have sent your prayers to the mighty lord Ba’al, you must slice open the lambs throat and sprinkle it’s blood over the roots of the tree, and sprinkle it over your head. Then he shall come to you.”  
“Why would he answer me, a woman?” she asked, “A woman not made whole?”  
“Do you forget?” Nita said, “You are named for him, in service of him. YHWH maybe be lord of Israel, but Ba’al does not abandon his children, though they may be far from his embrace.”  
“When should I go?” she asked.  
“Now,” Nita replied, “Take nothing but the lamb and the satchel.”  
“Nothing?”  
“Not even your sandals,” she said firmly, “This is a trial, Izevel. The Lord Ba’al needs blood and sweat in return for your prayers. In every pain, do not cry out in anger, cry out in exaltation, for your pain will bring his pleasure.”  
“And he will bring back my lost son?”  
“I do not know,” Nita said, pulling Izevel to her feet and leading her out of the tent, “Ba’al does not reveal his plans to me, only what it is you must do.”  
“The Lord Ba’al came to you?” Izevel demanded, grabbing the older woman’s arms, “He tells you that I must complete this task?”  
“He did,” she lied evenly, sliding the leading rope of the lamb into her hand, “You are his, Ithabaal. From birth till death and into the afterlife, you are his woman. He will not abandon you, if you only do as he asks.”

Izevel set her gaze on the horizon, determined. If this was her way to be made whole, and to serve Ba’al, then she would do it. She had nothing left to lose.

“Then I shall go.”

* * *

 

The path was not easy- in sandals, it was a painful trek, but without them, it was hellish. As Tirzah shrunk in the distance, her footsteps grew red with blood, her throat dry as the dirt beneath her feet. The lamb pulled away, jerking her this way and that as her ankles and feet cried out for respite. She fell to her knees, her blood and fluid stained birthing gown tearing, her hands cut open on the sharp craggy rocks. She opened her mouth to cry out, swallowing her pain.

“Blessed be Ba’al, lord of the heavens,” she murmured, salty tears burning her eyes, “Blessed be my Lord and God.”

She pulled herself up, sweat stinging her eyes and her legs shaking, continuing her trek. Again and again she fell, only to praise Ba’al and stand again. This trial, it only solidified her determination, only hardended her will. Her soft exhalations became shouts, her anger and pain lacing their way up to the sky as it fell from her lips.   
She may beg Ba'al for his blessing, for his help, but she didn't care if he knew she was angry, that she was suffering. In fact, she _wanted_ the god to know. She wanted him to see what he had done to his creation, his servant. She wanted him to revel in it, bask in her pain, so that he might grant her request.   
  
She wanted him to know- he was Ba'al, and she was Ithabaal. She wanted her voice to pierce the heavens and his immortal heart. Named in service him, living in exhaltation of him, yet cursed by him. She wanted him to know that she knew this, that she was aware of this grand, cruel irony; and that despite this- she would still praise him, still serve him, because she was _his_ , and despite his cruelty, she would remain loyal.   
  
She walked for hours, dragging along the lamb, leaving nothing but a trail of blood behind her, her eyes focused on the dark shape of the cypress in the distance. She thought she could hear the voices of Tirzah calling out across the barren landscape, but she refused to look back. She was so intensely focused on her goal, that not even the bites of the horseflies nor the rocks tearing at her feet gave her pause, unless they drug her to her knees. She refused to yield.

She finally made it, collapsing at the foot of the tree with a soft cry. She clung to the roots, her breathing labored as her body screamed from the exertion, the lamb pulling this way and that on the rope lashed around its neck, eager to graze in the fragrant fields. She could feel the wetness of blood between her thighs and trickling down her legs, her brutal travel reopening the tearing from birth. She panted heavily, pushing herself upright as her body protested, crying for rest, for respite. She still had much to do, and she braced herself for the task at hand. She picked up a sharp rock in her still freshly-calloused hands, digging into the hard dirt with frantic stabs and scrapes. She put all her rage into her arms, her hands, that stone as she tored open the earth the way she was torn open. The Earth would gain nothing from this, just as she gained nothing- nothing but pain, but blood, but death. She let out an enraged scream, her arms flailing wildly as she stabbed the freshly tilled earth, throwing aside the rock and digging with her hands. She stilled after a moment, regaining her composure. She picked up the satchel, staring at it accusingly, as if with only a look she was daring it not to work. She sighed, letting her body sag as she let go of the anger.   
  
“Please, please work,” she whispered, kissing the tiny satchel and dropping it inside. She held her hands heavenward, staring into the empty blue sky.

“Most Exalted Lord Ba’al, hear my prayer,” she cried out, “Make my womb plentiful, let it birth living sons and daughters, so that we may better live in service of you, My Lord.”

She dropped her hands. “I would give anything you ask, My Lord. Anything,” she whispered, covering the bag with dirt. She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath as she heard the happy bleats closeby as the lamb grazed. She had never killed an animal before, not for sacrifice or anything else for that matter. She was scared, but determined. One life for another. 

She grabbed the lamb roughly, withdrawing the small dagger she carried on her person for protection, plunging it into the lamb’s neck with a shout as blood sprayed hot and warm over her hands. The lamb gave a terrified bleat, writhing in her grasp and trying to get away, smearing her whole body with blood as she clumsily tried to get it to pour over the roots of the tree. Her whole body trembled as she stole the life of the innocent creature in her desperation for life. Finally, the lamb stilled, and she cupped her hands under the wide gash in the creature’s throat, letting it pool with blood.

She lifted her arms over her head, letting the blood run over her hair and down her face, her eyes fixed on the sky.

“Ba'al, lord of the Heavens, God of all,” she cried out to the sky, “Hear my prayers!”

Nothing. No wind, no sound, nothing but the metalic tang of blood in her mouth and nose.   
  
"Ba'al, hear my prayers!"

Again, silence.

She felt her rage, her indignation bubbling forth and spilling from her mouth.

"I am Ithabaal, Princess of Tyre, Queen of Israel, high priestess of the Lady Astarte!" she screamed, looking and turning frantically, "I have ever sung your praises, I have ever served you!" she took a deep breath, throwing every bit of her authority, her being, into her words, "So I say to you, Ba'al! Will you not answer your loyal servant? Will you not reward the loyal, the faithful? Will you not speak to one whose very existence is in exhalation of your glory? Do you fear YHWH, the god of this land? Will you not cross his path to answer the cries of your woman?"

Silence.

"Show me your might!" she screamed, "Show me your wrath! Smite me if you so desire, but answer me!"

 

“You’ve never done a sacrifice before, Ithabaal. It shows.”

Izevel whirled around to face the voice, hands flying up to shield her eyes. A man leaned against the side of the Cypress tree, dressed in what seemed like pure light. Slowly the light dimmed, and she could see him- clad in beautiful white clothes, his skin golden and glowing, he was beautiful. She could feel the pure power in his very being, in his voice, and she quaked before it. He was just like she always imagined her god, god of Lightning and Fertility. She threw herself to the dirt, her face pressed against the rocks as he stepped forward, laughing lightly.

“Ithabaal, daughter of Ethbaal,” he said, “I have seen your suffering and it has pleased me. I shall reward you with respite.” He reached out and touched her head, warmth rushing through her body as her pain lessened, still there. She kissed his fingertips, her eyes wide.  
“Thank you, thank you My Lord,” she whispered. He nodded, pulling away from her.

“Now, child,” he said with a smirk, “You come demanding my help.”  
“I beg for your help, My Lord,” she said hesitantly.  
"The words you spoke did not sound like begging to me," he said, raising an eyebrow, "They sounded like a command."  
“I-“  
“Silence,” he said, “I admire those with the strength to stand against injustice. I know what it is you seek- what so many seek. Power.”  
"Power, My Lord?" she asked, daring to look up at him, "I do not understand." 

He looked at the tree for a moment, his hand running over its rough and gnarled bark.

“I have seen this tree grow from a sapling, and many before it,” he said softly, “The earth and the sky are my domain. I have seen many women trek to this very spot, asking what you do now. And I have ignored their cries. For they are not mine, and they do not look to me.”

Around them, the herb field wilted and crumpled, the blackened remains blowing away on the winds.

“And so, I give them no mercy, no respite. I ask for one thing of the humans. I do not have tablets inscribed with my demand, for it is simple. Give yourself wholly to me, and I shall provide providence.”

He stood over her, cocking his head to the side as he looked down at the small woman.

“You seek to have the power of Life, to be made whole when you were not,” he said, “You are the tree that bears nothing but dead fruit for the insects; a sad thing that provides only to the carrion.”

He flicked his wrist, and suddenly a fruit grew from the Cypress tree, an impossible feat. He plucked it down and tore it open, revealing the insides to be rotten and filled with insects. She watched in horror and disgust as they crawled over his luminous fingers, bathed in the putrid juices that coated his hands. But his expression was one of disinterest. 

“You cannot sustain life,” he continued, casting the fruit onto the soil before it turned to dust in front of her eyes, “And now you are arrogant enough to demand of me to give you such a precious gift,” he looked over at her, his face a mask of sadness, “Why do you exalt me in one breath and yet criticize your creation in another? Do you believe that your lifeless womb was not in my plan?”  
“I meant no disrespect…” she began.  
“Oh, there is no disrespect to me,” he said, shrugging carelessly, “It is only disrespect to YHWH that you show.”  
“YHWH?” she asked, “But what…”  
“Did you not feel my presence wane in his land? Did you not see the misfortune that befell you as soon as you stepped foot upon his soil? As I asked, do you believe that your lifeless womb was not in my plan?”  
“I do not understand, My Lord,” she said softly. He shook his head, reaching out to cradle her face between his hands as she knelt before him.   
“Ithabaal, why would I curse my beloved, my namesake, so?” he asked, “Am I not a kind, bountiful God? Have I not overseenyour family’s wealth and success? Have I not blessed your father with many sons? Have I not blessed him with you, his most valuble commodity to extending his power? I am kind. I am good to my servants. Why then would I curse you so?”  
“Then…YHWH has taken my son, stolen the life from him?”  
“Yes,” he said firmly, “YHWH is a cruel God, one that seeks to smite those who oppose him, those who do not worship him. Those who worship me. He seeks to eradicate every trace of me in his rage, for he cannot stand that I bested him. So he has stolen life from you.”

From his hand came a figure in light, a child that looked like her and Ahav, with bright eyes and chubby cheeks. She reached out to him, her heart surging with joy. He stumbled forward with wordless babble, only to let out a high cry and disappear, snapped up by shadowy hounds. She let out a soft cry, her fists pounding the dirt as he continued.

“And he will steal all life that springs from the fount of your body, for while I delight in your transient pain, he delights in your everlasting suffering. Just as he delights in mine.”

She threw herself at his feet, kissing them. He had great power, the power to bring rain, to bring drought; to bring life. Ba’al and his Astarte had held dominion over her life and kept her safe and well while she was in their embrace. And now, Ba’al had returned for her.

“Please, please My Lord, lift this curse!” she begged, “I will give anything, do anything…please!”

He grimaced, pulling his foot away. He looked down on her loftily before raising his hand.

“Do you see that mountain?” he asked, pointing to the low-lying peak that laid a day’s walk away, “Climb to the peak, and there you shall find a spring and a fig tree, heavy laden with fruit. Eat of the tree and drink of the spring for three days and nights- eat nothing else, drink nothing else. On the third night, your womb shall be fruitful. But in exchange for this gift, I must ask a price.”

“Ask it, anything,” she said desperately, “Anything My Lord.”

“Your soul,” he said gently, leaning down and stroking her face, “I will come to you many times in the days to come, and you shall serve me first and foremost. You will not understand my orders, but you will not question them. And when you die, you shall be at my hand, to serve me for eternity.”

“Yes, yes,” she said, nodding her head rapidly, “Yes, I will serve you now and forever. Please, My Lord, lift the curse on your most faithful servant. Lift this curse so I may exalt you with my sons.”

He stepped away, leaning against the cypress tree with his arms folded.

“Climb to the peak and do as I have commanded, and it shall be so,” he said, “I shall show you the way.”

He disappeared in a flash, the brilliant streak of white light dashing through the sky, resting at the peak of the mountain. She braced herself, lifting her tired and aching body, and began her trek to the light, to Ba’al, and to her future sons.

* * *

 

She stumbled into the wide bowl on the peak, looking over the dry, dead grass. She walked on wobbly legs towards a muddy spring, collapsing next to it and drinking desperately. She spat out the water quickly, rubbing her mouth. It tasted foul, as if it had been poisoned by a dead body, but there was none to be seen.   
There was only the spring.   
She gritted her teeth and drank her fill, her stomach protesting the putrid water, but she finished the task. She stood, feeling dizzy as she stumbled over to the twisted fig tree with dry, brown leaves, fruit hanging from the limbs. She climbed up and plucked the best looking one she could find, bringing it to her lips and spitting it out as well. It was rotten, infested with insects, just the same as the one he had showed her. But unlike the one he had shown her, a dark, foul liquid seeped from the fruit, leaving dark brown streaks down her arm and the sides of her mouth. Another test?

“Did you think it would really be so simple, Ithabaal?”

She looked up to see Ba’al in the branches high above her, tossing a fig up and down in the air, “A gift easily given is a gift not appreciated.”

“Then what else must I do?” she called out, “What task do you set before me?”

He leapt from the tree, his broken and mangled wings snapping out to ease his landing. She stared at them in wonder, the taste in her mouth disappearing as she looked upon them. They were so great and wide, even if they were twisted and broken and molting. She had seen a bird with wings in the condition of his after a particularly horrible storm in Tyre. She had found the gull lying on the shoreline, its wings twisted and bent, its head raised high to caw in desperation for help. But none of the other gulls paid it any mind, flying away without pause.

_Her tutor, Abdi-Ptah, stood next to her as she stared forlornly at the creature, picking it up._

_“Abdi,” she said, holding the creature out to him, “You have to save it!”_   
_He took the bird from her hands, wringing its neck in silence before laying its body in the waves. She stared at him in horror, big fat tears filling her seven year old eyes._   
_“You killed it!” she cried out shrilly, “How could you!”_   
_“You told me to save it, little princess,” Abdi-Ptah said in his deep, rumbling voice, “There was no way to help the creature. Did you not see that its brethren had fled away and left it to die? He was broken beyond repair. I gave him mercy.”_   
_“But he could’ve stayed here and lived,” she pouted. Abdi-Ptah laughed, kneeling in front of her._   
_“Where he could not fly, could not be with those he loved? That is cruel. Sometimes the greatest kindness we can afford those who suffer is a quick and painless death, and a proper burial.”_

She looked on his wings in sadness, reaching out hesitantly. Was this YHWH's punishment for being bested by her God? Had he destroyed his beautiful wings, stolen from him as well? He pulled away from her touch at first, glaring at her, until her fingers brushed against the mussed feathers reverently. He could see the awe, the worship in her eyes as her hands moved gently, tenderly over them, as if she hoped to heal them with her touch. 

“What has happened to them?” she whispered, her hand running over it gently again. He watched her closely, his body still rigid.  
“This is what YHWH does to those who oppose him,” he said quietly. She looked up at him, anger filling her eyes.How dare he. How dare YHWH destroy such beauty, such power and grace. How dare he destroy what he could not control.   
“How dare he,” she said angrily, her touch still gentle, “You are Ba’al, the master of the sky. How dare he harm you.”  
“Are you planning to do something about it?” he asked with a twinge of amusement. She pulled her hand away, shaking her head.  
“I’m just a human woman,” she said, “I cannot do anything to Gods, to YHWH.”

He nodded, folding them in close to his back once more, noting with satisfaction the disappointment on her face. 

“To answer your question, you are to do just as I told you,” he said, “Eat of the tree, drink of the spring for three days and three nights. Then, you shall be reborn whole and bathed in my light and blessing.”  
“Am I to remain here for those three days and nights?” she asked. He gestured to the pass she had just come from, a smirk crossing his perfect features.  
“You are free to attempt the journey home. Who knows? Perhaps you’ll make it there and back each day. Or perhaps you will meet your death on those paths before you are ever able to enjoy your gift.”  
“And if I stay here?” she asked. He smirked, sitting in the dead grass. She marveled as the grass became green and lush around him, but not reaching more than six inches from him.  
“If you stay, then I shall teach you.”  
She came closer, looking at him curiously.  
“What shall you teach me?” she asked, her voice soft.

He snapped his fingers, one of the figs from the tree appearing in his hand, a devilish grin on his face.

“Everything,” he said, holding out the fruit, “Fig?” he asked, crushing it in his hands, the foul brown liquid leaking from his fingers as he laughed.

* * *

 

On the sunrise of the fourth day, all of Tirzah was woken by the cries of Lord Ahav and his first wife, rushing across the empty landscape to embrace the weak, bloody and weary figure of his younger wife. They gathered at a distance, watching as the Commander bathed his younger wife in kisses and affections, as Ishah clutched her to her chest like a lost child when Ahav finally released her, tears on their faces.   
"Izevel, oh Izevel," she wept, "My sister!"   
  
But unlike the day she left, she stood tall and proud, her head held high, and everyone knew that something had changed about her.

“Where have you been?” Ahav demanded when he regained himself, shaking her,  “We thought you dragged off by dogs! We searched for you!”  
She smiled, shaking her head and gently pulling his hands off her shoulders.  
“No, My Lord,” she said with a mysterious smile, “I have been convening with my God. And he has shown me the way. Come, lay with me, husband. You shall have your son.”

* * *

 

“What did you do with Ba’al in those three days and nights?’ Sam asked. Meg laughed, shaking her head. Was Sam really that dense? She had all but said his name, refusing to feel his name in her mouth while she remembered those days. She could say it now, but not when she reflected.  
“Do you really not know who Ba’al was?” she asked. He shook his head, confused.  
“A fallen angel?” he asked, shrugging.  
“No, you idiot,” she laughed, “He was the Morningstar. Lucifer.”  
Sam looked at her, flabbergasted yet again. Lucifer was in the cage then, wasn’t he? He was already locked away…

“Lucifer wasn’t put into the cage until after the crucifixion,” Meg said, “I was long before Jesus walked the earth.”

He continually forgot that she had told him that- that she was older than Jesus, older than almost all the demons. She had told him that so many times, he had seen it when she was inside him, but that sort of age was something that was so hard to grasp. But the idea of Lucifer and Meg, on a mountain for three days and nights fascinated him. She was human then, so what use would he have with her? He hated humans. He hated demons. Meg’s impressive lifespan only became more impressive when he learned that her deal was made directly with him.

Of course his mind went straight to sex. He had no idea why, maybe it was from his lack of sexual contact in recent times, but he couldn’t help but find his mind weaving its way back to that thought. The thought of her as she was as a human, lithe and golden skinned, her body entangled in a patch of green grass while Lucifer thrust within her, his wings fluttering…  
And for some reason, he felt a surge of…anger? Jealousy? It couldn’t be jealousy. He liked Meg as a…being, but not in any sexual way. She’d been too up close and personal with him against his will for him to find any sexual part of her appealing. But...he had to know.

“So what did you and…uh, Lucifer, do in those three days and nights?” he tried again. Meg looked away, her eyes glazed as she smiled sadly.  
“I’ve never told anyone, mortal or immortal, about those days on the mountain,” she said softly, “Of what we did, of what he taught me. It was those three days and nights that sealed my devotion to him for the millennia that it had held firm, until you.”  
“What did he teach you?” Sam said just as softly. For some reason, speaking above a whisper in that moment felt rude, almost sacrilegious. She closed her eyes, one stray tear running down her cheek.  
“Everything,” she said as her voice cracked slightly.

Everything. He couldn’t help but think of Ruby- who had, in effect, taught him everything he knew about his mother’s friends and family, about using his psychic powers, about the demon blood…about how to lie. He remembered those miserable months, taking refuge in her teachings, in her body, and the kind of connection such a thing develops. He never understood her devotion to Lucifer- she knew that she was disposable to him, nothing but scum in his eyes, and yet she looked at him like a god, like a father. Almost like a lover. He couldn’t understand how she could know his contempt and still adore him so. But he was realizing more and more that the snippets of memories that he couldn’t place, that he knew weren’t his, were actually hers. And he remembered tender, glowing pale hands on golden brown skin, silky whispers of Enochian that he couldn’t translate. 

 _Brin Zonrensg Iana._   
  
He realized, in that moment, that perhaps that was part of her memory from the mountain.

“Brin Zonrensg Iana,” Sam said softly, staring at her evenly. She gasped sharply, turning to him with red eyes.  
“What did you say?” she whispered, her voice high and breathy, like he’d never heard it before.  
“Brin Zonrensg Iana,” he repeated, watching the way her face crumpled, suddenly feeling guilty for even saying the words. She let out a sob, pressing her forehead against the table. He’d never seen Meg react that way to anything in all the time he’d known her, but three words seemed to have broken her. He reached out to touch her, but she jerked away as if he had burnt her, leaping to her feet so fast that the chair skittered and fell to the floor.

“Don’t,” she said, her chest heaving, “Don’t touch me. Not after you said those words…how…how do you know those words?” She pressed her hands to her face, her whole body shaking.  
“He told you, didn’t he? That horrible…cruel,” she cried, “Who told you those words?”  
“No one did,” Sam said, standing and approaching her as he would a wounded animal, “I’ve heard them before, I’ve seen things. I think you left behind some things when you….you know.”  
“Not that,” she said, moving to the edge of the devil’s trap, “I’ve never spoken those words, I’ve never told another being those words! How could you know them, how could you know what they mean?” She suddenly turned to fury, coming at him with her hands curled into claws, swinging at him.

“No!” she screamed, her hands colliding with his face and chest, leaving deep scratches on his cheek. He wrapped his arms around her, pinning her arms against her chest and lifting her off the ground.  
“Stop!” he yelled, “Meg, stop! It’s me, stop!” Her screams died away to frantic sobbing, her legs kicking as she struggled in his arms.  
“You can’t know, how do you know,” she wailed, “How could you know what it means?”  
“I don’t,” he said soothingly in her ear, “Meg, it’s okay. I don’t know what the words mean. You’re here, you’re safe. You’re not with him. You’re with me.”  
“No I’m not,” she yelled, “I’m always with him when I’m with you! I can never escape him, don’t you understand?”  
“What?” Sam asked, still holding her in the air.  
“I will always see his light inside you, Sammy,” she whispered, “I see you, but I see his light inside you and it aches and burns and cries out to me. And hearing your voice…your voice say those words…”

She dissolved into wordless sobbing, as Sam held her tight against his chest, her feet a few inches off the ground. He could feel every hitch in her chest, every bone wracking sob, and he knew she wasn’t faking. Which was, perhaps, the most frightening part of it all.

He set her down gently in her chair, pulling his close enough that her more slender knees were framed by his own, his hands wrapped around hers. It was a moment of intimacy he never thought he would share with her, a moment where her walls were broken down and she was vulnerable. There was no human blood to blame this time. This was her- just her. She was, in fact, capable of emotion, and it baffled him.

“Meg,” he said gently, his hand lifting to cup her cheek, but she jerked away yet again. He made a mental note that she would allow him to be close to her, allow him to hold her hands, but the moment he came near her face, she tried to dash.

“What does it mean?” he asked softly. She didn’t lift her head from its hung position.

“It means, ‘I have delivered you, daughter of light’, “she whispered, “He said it to me on the mountain, and many other times. I used to think…it was his way of professing whatever love he could muster. It was what made me give myself to him wholly. He saved me, and yet he damned me. He called me a daughter of light, and yet he made me a being of darkness, so unlike him. When he said it….” She paused, her body trembling once more, “When he whispered it through the bars of his cage, his fingers slipping through to stroke my cheek despite the pain it brought him, I knew then.”

Sam’s mind was reeling. He always knew that there was so much more to everything involving Lucifer than he could ever know, but this was…huge. She had spoken to him in the cage. He had reached out to her. He had spoken tender words to her, loving words. There was no mistaking it- those words held some sort of love, just as she had said- whatever love Lucifer still had in him for anything but God, twisted and mad as it may be, he had put them in those three words he spoke to her. A human. Then, a demon.

“What did you know?” he asked.  
“That I would die for him. Again, and again, and again. That I would suffer torture and exile, that I would do anything for him. My beloved God. My light. My Ba’al.”

He let it all soak in for a moment. He was so certain that Lucifer, that even Meg, was incapable of caring for anything in a real way. There were things that they valued because they were useful, things that they desired to care for because they had purpose, but to love in a way that was not for benefit…it was a bit mind blowing. He held the suspicion that Lucifer’s loving words and gestures were all motive, but Meg’s didn’t seem to be. She really, truly, deeply loved the fallen Archangel. In fact, he was pretty sure she still did.

“He was never just a cause for you to follow,” Sam said, looking at her, “You were in love with him.”  
“Like the desert sand loves the rain,” she said softly, “Anything from him was a blessing, was confirmation of his love. Pain, tenderness, lies, truths. All of it, I drank it up. And I loved him. And I wanted nothing more than to please him.”  
“Did you love him more than you loved your husband?” Sam asked, “When you came back to Tirzah, did you still love Ahav?”  
“No,” she said, shaking her head, “Not the way I once did. I had met my God and he had given me my greatest wish. I loved Ahav, dearly, deeply. But my love for Lucifer was divine. Cosmic.”  
“Have you ever loved anything that way again?” Sam asked curiously, “Or was it just him?”

“That’s a conversation for another day,” she said, her voice betraying her exhaustion, “Leave. I’m done talking for tonight.”

Sam looked down at the empty syringe that laid on the table, long forgotten. She didn’t even seem interested in his blood, the whole reason she’d agreed to this. It was strange to him- she couldn’t be that upset that she’d entirely forgotten what she wanted from him. He picked it up, holding it out to her.

“Don’t you want-“  
“I said leave!” Meg said loudly, lifting her head and slapping the syringe out of his hand, “Don’t make me tell you again, Winchester.”

He looked down at the syringe on the floor and back at her, as she seemed to curl into herself on the chair. She looked tiny, vulnerable, and it was amazing to him how he could suddenly feel like he was towering over someone when so many times before it had felt like they were the ones who lorded over him, that he was the small one. Even seated, he felt like he was standing over her as she cowered away from him. It made him sad, seeing her like this; seeing her so vulnerable, so hurt, and trying so hard to protect herself. Almost broken. And he’d done it with just three little words, words that he didn't even understand.

He nodded quietly, standing up. She’d retreated for the first time in the time he knew her- she pulled away, and she’d demanded that he leave her alone. She never wanted to be alone, that much he’d learned- she liked having her audience, captive and in awe. But now, she didn’t want an audience. Because she felt weak and exposed.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said quietly. She pressed her face into her knees, hugging her legs hard.  
“Leave,” came her muffled response. He tried to approach her again, not wanting to leave her like this. He knew that logically, she couldn’t do anything, nor would she, but something just didn’t sit right with him, just leaving her alone like this.  
“Meg…”  
“Get out!” she screeched, leaping to her feet and throwing the table, “Get out! Get the fuck out!”

The table barely missed him, the chair going next. It was clear he only had one course of action- do what she said, and get the fuck out. He ran for the door as her raging continued, slamming it behind him and pressing his back against it.   
Jesus Christ. She went from docile to wild animal in a matter of milliseconds- he needed to be more careful. And not push the issue when she told him not to- not issues like this. He rubbed his face, wincing as his palm brushed over the scratches on his cheek.

“Shit,” he hissed, jerking his hand away, “Fuck.”  
“What happened to your face?”  
He turned his head to the familiar voice, seeing Kevin standing there, his arms folded across his chest.  
“Kevin! What’re you doing down here- go get some sleep,” Sam said quickly, ”My face is fine. I scratched myself.” Kevin shook his head, looking angry. Clearly he wasn’t buying it.  
“She did that, I know she did. I heard her yelling,” he said coldly, “She sounded like she was hurt. What did you do to her?”

Sam blinked, standing up fully. Did Kevin hear her all the way upstairs? Or was he following him down here?

“What?” Sam asked, “You heard her yelling upstairs? I didn’t hurt her, I mean, not physically… I didn’t mean to-“  
“What did you do to her?” Kevin demanded again, “You didn’t hurt her, did you?”  
“No, I wouldn’t hurt her,” Sam said, shaking his head, “We were just talking and she got upset.”

Kevin kept glaring at Sam, making his irritation rise. Why the hell was Kevin looking at him like that, like he was some kind of monster? Like he just went around fucking hurting anyone who didn’t do what he wanted?

“Goddamn it Kevin, I’m not Dean!” he yelled, immediately regretting the words as they hung in the air.

The implication was there, and he couldn’t take it back. Dean was the one who hurt things, Dean was the torturer. It wasn’t as if Sam really believed that- his brother was a good person, and he did the best he could. But no matter what Sam thought, no matter what he said after that, it wouldn’t make a difference. He’d made Dean the dangerous one. Kevin stared at him hard, then let out a sigh of relief as his shoulders sagged. Apparently, that was good enough for him- implication and all.

“You were just talking?” he asked earnestly, biting his lip. Sam nodded.  
“Just talking.”  
“Good,” Kevin said, nodding to himself, “Good.” Sam cocked his head to the side, reaching out to grab Kevin’s shoulder before he left. What did Kevin care about what they did to Meg? He barely knew her, and she hadn’t exactly been nice to him as far as Sam knew. Kevin stopped, turning back around at Sam’s touch.

“Kevin?” he asked.  
“Yeah?”  
“Why, uh,” Sam paused, licking his lips, “Why do you care about what happens to Meg?”

Kevin looked down at his hands, picking his nail as he shrugged.  
“Dunno,” he mumbled, “I just don’t think she’s all that bad, that’s all.”  
“She helped us kidnap you,” Sam said with a small laugh. Kevin cracked a smile in return, shaking his head.  
“No…like, she’s helped you guys and me a whole lot, right? And she’s never tried to hurt me. And she always helps me when I go down and talk to her.”  
“You talk to her?”  
“Yeah,” Kevin admitted sheepishly, “It’s, uh, kinda lonely around here. She’ never exactly mean to me. A little bit rude and sarcastic, yeah, but she doesn’t seem to mind me. I like talking to her.”  
“What do you guys talk about?”  
“Stuff,” Kevin said, “We talk about my mom a lot. About where she is, how I could find her. But we’ve talked about other stuff too.”  
“She mentioned your Mom to me earlier,” Sam said.  
“Yeah,” Kevin said, shrugging again, “I dunno. She’s not all that bad to me, and she seems to like you. The only person I’ve really seen her get nasty with is Dean, and you gotta admit, he kinda brings out the worst in people.”  
“You’re right about that,” Sam said with a small laugh.  
“I just think that maybe there’s a lot more good in her than anyone thinks. Maybe more good than she even knows,” Kevin finished, looking at his shoes, “I mean, someone has to believe in her.”

Sam nodded pensively. He was struck by Meg’s remark earlier- he was innocent, genuine, and that was what made him special. And maybe it was that innocence that let him see her for what she was- a flawed creature, but in essence, a good one, one that he could believe in. He ruffled Kevin’s hair, smiling.

“I think you’re right about that, Kev.”


	6. Chapter 6

Sam didn’t know how he felt about Meg’s revelations to him. Of course, he’d asked- he’d been the one to reach out to her, to offer her his blood in exchange for her story- but he was starting to think he may’ve bitten off more than he could chew with the deal. He figured she'd been a witch, like Ruby, or maybe some sort of evil doer, one who sold their soul for power, which seemed like her style. That would be easier. Finding out that she'd been through so much as a human, and a teenager at that, made him pity her, and knowing that it was shortly after the loss of her son that she sold her soul to Lucifer made it worse.  
And the icing? She sold her soul so she could have kids.  
It was one of the saddest things he'd ever heard in his life, and he realized that he couldn't exactly blame her for it- she was just a kid, younger than Kevin was right now. How many stupid mistakes had he made as a kid, without dealing with the things she had? How many stupid things had he done even as an adult, for similar reasons? And the more his mind wrapped around the weight of her story thus far, the more intrigued he became. How could a girl who'd only wanted to have children and please her husband become a demon who killed indiscriminately, who wreaked so much pain and havoc? He knew that her story was genuine, at least some parts of it- who would make up something like this?- but he always had the sneaking suspicion that she was lying, he couldn’t help it. Yet after her last outburst, he couldn’t help but face a very hard truth.

The hard truth was that demon or not, evil or not, Meg was not at all what she had seemed to be…and she was much more human than previously thought.

He found himself becoming intensely disturbed by the nagging voice in the back of his head as he lay in bed, the voice that kept whispering doubt to him as it always did, but now increasing its volume. What else didn’t he know? How wrong had he been in the past about other demons? Or monsters, for that matter? Meg was an emotionless, manipulative creature to him; a thing that he and his brother would murder without a second thought. She was an ‘other’- not human, not one of them. It was easy to look at her as an ‘other’- dehumanizing her as they dehumanized monsters and demons and angels made everything simple. What wasn’t human was bad; and needed to be killed to protect humans. Hunters had become adept in their history at ‘othering’ creatures, even ones with human faces. It was a necessary evil, one of many. But now more than ever, Sam found himself seeing the humanness of all these beings, of her, the lines between ‘us’ and ‘them’ blurring.

He supposed it all started with the fact that in his own family, he was the ‘other’- not like his father or his brother, the wolf in black sheepskin, the pariah. He was the monster with a human face- first as Azazel’s special child, then drinking demon blood, being Lucifer's vessel, being soulless. He had been the other, the one that his own brother was willing to lock up, to kill in order to save the world.

There was a dangerous kinship that he found with monsters. Some were evil, of course- they liked their curse and accepted it willingly, reveled in it. And he remembered the amazing freedom of being soulless. Nothing hurt, there were no questions, nothing to hold him to right and wrong because it simply didn’t matter. If he wanted- needed- to kill something, he did. If he wanted a cheap fuck, he got one. If he wanted to drink himself stupid and leer over any drunk pretty thing that looked his way, he did. No guilt, No regret, no second thoughts. It was like having a lobotomy without all the side effects. He’d never admit it, but he sometimes craved the feeling of soullessness-the ability to not give a fuck, to simply _be_ instead of struggling against himself endlessly.

But more often than not, he found himself in the other monsters- scared, desperate, hating what they were and what they did but unable to resist their new nature. They didn’t do the things they did out of evil necessarily, but because they saw no other choice. He saw no choice so many times in his life; the evil in his actions necessary in order for the end result. Drinking demon blood didn’t start as an addiction- it started as a way to save people. It just spiraled out of his control, until it destroyed everything. The feeling in his body, the feeling of every nerve ending that he thought had long since died alive and tingling with vigor- the heightened senses, the euphoria, the feeling that he was finally what he was always meant to be. He hated it, but he loved it. It was such a double-edged sword- it was everything he ever wanted feel, and yet everything he never wanted to be. Finally feeling like he fit inside his skin, that he was whole; but the method being so at odds with everything he believed in. A Frankenstein monster, made of stitched together scraps of hunter and demon. A human monstrosity. A monstrous human.

He could see in the desperate eyes of the monsters before the killing blow; the panic, the pleading that this was never what they wanted. They never meant for it to go this far, for their souls to be so bent and twisted out of shape- to become what they always feared. He could see the truth in their faces- they knew they needed to die, hell, they _wanted_   to die. They didn’t want to be alive any more than hunters wanted them to be. That was the worst part of it. He remembered looking in the mirror and seeing that same expression on his own face, that same desperation in his eyes.  
  
Being an ‘other’ wasn’t living. It wasn’t even surviving.  
It was just…not dying.  
Not knowing how to end it. Not knowing if it would even work- there was something immensely terrifying about not knowing how to kill yourself, not knowing if that leap would actually be the end, or if your nature would stitch you back together more wretched than before, if something would reach a hand out and negate every action to take back control.  Nothing was easy, being an ‘other’. You had no control over yourself or your life. You couldn’t choose to change, and even when you did, no one would let you. You didn’t belong, but you could never leave.

Yet it was different than the kinship he’d found budding between him and Meg. It wasn't like with Ruby, where he had blinded himself to the worst parts of her, where he had accepted her half-hearted apologies and claims that she couldn't help herself.  
Meg never made that claim, and he knew that there was darkness in her. It just didn't seem to matter so much to him, like it should've. She wasn’t sorry for what she was, what she had done. She had embraced her nature and yet rejected it all at once- she had made it clear time and time again that though she was a demon, she had no real brotherhood with other demons. In fact, she despised them, and he could see that she despised herself. She wanted to die, how many times she’d made that so clear- daring him and Dean, throwing herself in the line of fire; it was like she was constantly dancing on the edge of oblivion and begging every passerby to throw her over the edge. What most people- including his brother- interpreted as unapologetic evil seemed to be so much more than that. Disgust. Pain. Self-loathing. He could see past the bravado to see what it really was; it was like looking in a mirror in some ways. But unlike him, there was no fear. Meg didn’t seem to fear death or pain or torture, she wasn’t afraid of the unknown or what waited, lurking in the shadows to tear out her throat.  
She only feared what already was.  
She feared the past.

If she was just evil, it would be easy. Everything is easier in black and white.

Sam realized that even if she attacked him, he wasn’t sure if he could kill her, because it would feel too much like killing a person. Hell, she’d attacked him tonight, and he couldn’t even walk away without feeling wrong for it.

 _I see you, but I see his light inside you and it aches and burns and cries out to me_.

He threw the blankets off of himself, his whole body coated in a thin sheen of sweat and shivering. She saw Lucifer inside him- but she didn’t just see him, she felt him, she felt him calling out to her. He felt a sudden turn of nausea wash over him, diving for the garbage can next to his bed, retching the scant remains of his dinner into it in one go. His whole body shook as he gagged again, nothing coming up but bile and spit. He slumped against the wall, holding the trash can to his chest and pressing the back of his head against the cool stone wall.

He knew that she hadn’t meant to upset him; that she wasn’t trying to make him feel like this- that, in itself, helped cause his body’s violent reaction. If she had been trying to manipulate him, trying to upset him, he could’ve brushed it off. It was easy to just consider any mention of _him_ as a cheap attempt by just about anyone to upset him. But the earnest tone in her voice, the tears and the sobbing, god, her physical reaction itself was enough to terrify him and make him realize that it wasn’t a cheap attempt to upset him or rile him up, it was real.

He lived with the daily terror that someday, somehow, Lucifer would take him again. The flashes of the cage came at the oddest times, chilling his blood and making his head spin, sending him into a full panic mode. He never confessed to Dean the truth- the truth that he knew that Lucifer was trapped in the cage and that he was outside; but even now, there were times that he was certain this was another one of Lucifer’s games. Lucifer had no qualms about using anything he could cook up in his devious mind to torture the younger Winchester- the psychological was a thousand times worse than the physical. He was able to handle the burning cold, he was able to handle Michael’s fire, the feeling of being ripped limb from limb, skin peeling from flesh. The pain was unimaginable, words couldn’t describe it; but physical pain is easier to forget and stuff into a dark corner of his mind, never to be thought of. Lucifer’s psychological games were the ones that broke him, that left him in terror even now. His brother’s hands peeling skin from flesh. His brother coming to save him, worry in his face, only to morph into Lucifer’s delighted grin. His own teeth and hands curled into claws and tearing his brother to shreds, the metalic tang of his blood and the sinewy texture of his flesh in his mouth. He still felt the icy breath of the Archangel on the nape of his neck, freezing him to the core. He could hear his soft voice whispering in his ears, something writhing inside of him; and it was all he could do not to cry when he felt it.

_Sammy, Sammy, Sammy. I’ll never let you go, you’re mine. You always were, and now I get to keep you forever. My own little pet. My favorite chew toy._

He breathed deeply, willing the nausea to stop, the roiling inside his guts to calm. He opened his eyes, his breathing still shallow.

“This is real,” he whispered, staring at the wall across the room from him, “I’m in the bunker. It’s okay. I’m okay. He’s in the Cage and I’m here.”

_Are you sure? We’ve played this game before, don’t you remember? All the fun we have..._

He dug his fingers into his scalp, his body shaking violently. The walls were closing in, and he felt like he couldn’t breathe. He felt the burning cold running up his spine, his heart pounding. The worst part of all of it was that he did remember the games they used to play. The horrible, cruel, vicious games that he could never win. He swore he could feel Lucifer’s icy fingers across his shoulder, up the side of his neck, curling in his hair.

“I’m in the bunker,” he said louder this time, his body rocking, “He’s not here.”

_But I am. I’m always here, Sam- always have been, always will be. I told you I’d never let you go._

It wasn’t enough. He needed something that wasn’t in the Cage, something that Lucifer didn’t use against him. He needed something, anything that made the past, the past. He stood up quickly, pacing the floor of his room desperately, as if he could escape what was inside him if he walked fast enough.

_Always running away. When are you going to figure out you can’t run away from yourself, Sammy?_

He dashed for the door, ripping it open and stumbling down the hall. He ran his fingers along the wall, reaching for anything that felt real- but the problem was, all of Lucifer’s games felt real. The world was spinning in front of his eyes, his feet stumbling. The walls shifting. He couldn't breathe, as if there were a huge weight on his chest, crushing him slowly, making him panic. The floor rushing up to meet him with a dull thud. Bare feet in front of him.

_What’s wrong, Sam?_

He let out a loud gasp, his whole body jerking as he felt a hot hand land on his bare arm. He flew backwards, pressed against the wall as his heart raced and he gagged again, looking up to see not Lucifer’s mocking smile, but Kevin’s concerned face.

“Sam?” Kevin asked softly, “Hey, Sam, it’s me. Just me.”

Kevin,” Sam mumbled shallowly, his body still tense, “Kevin. Not in the Cage.”

Kevin gave him a confused look, reaching out to the older man slowly. He'd never seen Sam like this before, not really. Even when he was facing the Trials, Sam had kept himself bound tightly together, unwilling to show any weakness to Kevin or Dean. He always got the feeling that Sam hid a lot of what was going on with him, but even so, he was pretty shocked when he heard his stumbling footsteps and frantic muttering. And there weren't words to describe just how strange and unnerving it was to see his face so pale, his eyes so wild, before he simply collapsed to the floor like a jenga tower, and then to see him flinch and scramble away as if he were afraid of Kevin when he reached out to him.

In fact, if it wasn't for the fact that he was so worried about Sam at the moment, Kevin probably would've started freaking out himself.  
  
“Hey, I’m gonna help you up, okay?” he said calmly, “Just gonna get you off the floor.”  
Sam nodded as Kevin took his arm, helping him to his feet. He could feel Kevin’s warm hand through his shirt on the small of his back, bringing him upright. Kevin wasn’t in the Cage. Kevin was long after the cage.  
Kevin couldn't help but feel a surge of sympathy for the younger Winchester in this condition, in the throes of a panic attack. Kevin had plenty of personal experience with them himself- one was not an AP student without being on some kind of anti-anxiety medication anymore, between the overwhelming pressure of achieving as highly as everyone expected them to and the stigma that came along with it. At least all that made him particularly adept at spotting and helping someone in the middle of a panic attack.  
  
“How about a cup of coffee?” Kevin asked, guiding Sam towards the kitchen, “I know it’ll keep you up, but when I have panic attacks, coffee always helps me calm down.”  
“What?” Sam asked, feeling disoriented. Kevin’s words weren’t registering; his whole mind so focused on the fact that Kevin wasn’t in the cage, using Kevin to tie himself to the present. Kevin chuckled a little, shaking his head as he led the much larger man down the hall and into the kitchen. In a way, it made Kevin feel useful, helping Sam right now. He'd made no real headway with the tablets, and he felt like all he'd been doing for a few days was taking up space and wasting time- precious time, which Dean's meaningful looks over Kevin's shoulder made clear. Helping Sam right now, oddly enough, was helping him put himself in a better mindset. If he could help Sam out right now, then he was earning his keep.     
“Coffee,” Kevin said lightly, depositing Sam on one of the many stools in the kitchen. Sam focused on the younger man moving with purpose from the coffee machine to the fridge, trying to keep in the moment. He watched as Kevin poured a large cup of coffee, putting sugar and flavored creamer into it before he pushed it across the table, looking at Sam expectantly.  
“Go ahead,” Kevin said encouragingly, “Drink up. It’ll help, I swear.”

Sam nodded numbly, lifting the cup to his lips and drinking it mindlessly as he stared down the other man. Kevin didn’t break eye contact with him, sipping his own mug as if this were a common occurrence- as if Sam always had freak outs and Kevin always made shared a coffee with him. It was soothing, the complete relaxation in Kevin's posture and movements, the easy smile on his face. Sam could feel the tenseness in his body easing, the cold receding and his breath growing calm. He closed his eyes, focusing his mind on actually tasting the bitterness of the coffee and the sweetness of the creamer and sugar. This was real. This wasn’t in the Cage. Kevin wasn’t in the cage.

Kevin's smile broadened as he watched the color return to Sam’s face, nodding to himself. He'd done good. Sam was clearly coming out of it, and he'd helped.

“I figured you were having a panic attack,” he said in a soothing, calm tone, “I have them a lot too. I guess even Mr. Badass Sam Winchester has anxiety. I’d offer you a Xanax, but I don’t have any. You guys don't have any tea, which probably would've been better, but I hate tea.”  
“Thank you,” Sam said quietly, looking back down in the coffee cup, “How did you know?”  
“Like I said, I have them too,” Kevin said, shrugging, “That looked like a bad one.”  
“Yeah, it was,” Sam said, laughing a little, “I couldn’t breathe and the walls were closing in and I thought…”  
“You thought you were in the Cage,” Kevin finished for him,  “You kinda…said it out loud. A few times. You ended up in the Cage when you fought _him_ , right?”  
“Yeah,” Sam mumbled, “Yeah. Sorry.”  
“Hey, don’t be sorry dude,” Kevin replied, pulling his stool closer to Sam, bringing his coffee with him, “I mean, you were trapped with Satan for months. That couldn't have been a pony ride. The way I figure, I’d be a little worried if you weren’t freaking out every now and again.”  
“I can’t freak out,” Sam said, gritting his teeth and pressing his fingers to his temples, “I need to-“  
“You need to calm down, more than anything,” Kevin replied, “Look, I get it. Well, I don't exactly get it, but I can empathize. You're the type of guy that always wants to be in control of himself. I'm like that too. I don't like feeling out of control, and a panic attack is like your body turning on you at the worst time in the worst way. But you need to think about something else right now other than everything that has you all wound up.”  
“It’s all I can think about,” Sam replied, “It’s…it’s so much pressure.”  
“Pressure? Talk to me when you have to translate an ancient rock that no one else can with Dean breathing down your neck,” Kevin joked, clearing his throat apologetically when he saw the concern on Sam’s face, “I’m kidding.”  
“No, you’re not,” Sam sighed, “I guess we’ve been so wrapped up in ourselves that we haven’t…”  
“Don’t worry,” Kevin said with a smirk, “I got Meg.”

The blood began to drain from Sam’s face again, making Kevin reach out and grab his wrist. Usually, Kevin made a point of avoiding physical contact with either Winchester- he figured if he caught them off guard, he'd end up with a broken nose. But he could tell that something about him making physical contact with Sam right now was helping him center himself, so he'd take that risk.  
“Dude, easy,” he said soothingly, “Is this about her?”  
Sam shook his head quickly. It wasn't about Meg- not exactly. It was her words ringing in his ears that started this, but it wasn't as if she'd meant to make him like this. It felt kinda shitty to blame her.  
“No…kind of, I guess?” he said, biting his lip, “She just said something.”  
“When isn’t she saying something,” Kevin teased lightly, “You want to talk about it?”  
“Not really,” Sam sighed. Kevin raised an eyebrow, standing and pouring Sam another cup of coffee. He brought it back over, setting the mug in front of him and patting his shoulder.  
“I kinda get the feeling you do,” Kevin prodded, “If it’d make you feel better, I promise I won’t tell Dean.”

Sam laughed, shaking his head. Of course Kevin wouldn't tell Dean.

“That’s part of the problem,” Sam said, his cheeks heating up, “I’m going around behind Dean’s back, and with Meg of all...well, she's a demon, you know? That’s…kinda never ended up good for me in the past- sneaking around Dean, especially when demons are involved.”  
“That’s not really surprising,” Kevin replied, “I mean…it is Dean you’re talking about. The dude is 70% strict parent and 30% Terminator.”  
Sam chuckled a little, nodding. Kevin cracked a thousand-watt grin at his own joke, filling his own cup before sitting down.  
"So, there was another demon like Meg?" Kevin asked gently. Sam shook his head quickly.  
"No, not like Meg, not really," he said, rubbing his face and sighing, "Her name was Ruby... that whole situation is pretty hard to explain. Long story short, she's the reason I ended up letting Lucifer out of the cage in the first place."  
"What?" Kevin coughed, setting down his mug, "You let Lucifer out of the cage?"  
"Now you see why I'm a little high strung?"  
"Yeah, but...." Kevin shook his head, "I dunno. She must've tricked you into doing it or something. You wouldn't do something like that on purpose, no way I'd buy that."  
  
There it was, Sam thought to himself, that innocence that Meg had talked about, that willingness to believe in the best in people.  
"Well, she did trick me," he admitted, "Not my finest hour, to say the least. I should've known better. I was stupid."  
"Demons are tricky, at least that's been my experience," Kevin replied, "Maybe you're being a bit hard on yourself. But what does Ruby have to do with Meg?"  
"Nothing, I mean, nothing really other than them both being demons."  
"And girls."  
Sam nodded, flushing.  
"Yeah, that too."  
"Wait...were you and Ruby...a thing?" Kevin asked. Sam looked away, too embarrassed to meet the younger man's gaze.  
"Like I said, I was stupid."  
"Are you and Meg..."  
"A thing?" Sam asked, shaking his head, "No. That's not what I'm interested in."  
"Then what are you interested in?" Kevin asked curiously, "You spend a hell of a lot of time down there, and you always seem wound up when you come out."  
"You been following me?" Sam asked jokingly.  
"No, no!" Kevin exclaimed, a guilty look crossing his face, "Okay, well... not all the time. Just when you go down there."  
"Why?" It was Sam's turn to be curious.  
"I just wanted to make sure she was okay, at first," he said, "But then, you know, I got curious. But that door doesn't let anything through unless someone is yelling. That's why I was there."  
"Because you wanted to eavesdrop, but all you heard was her yelling."  
"Yup," Kevin said, "And whatever made her yell probably has something to do with what's bothering you."  
"I said I don't wanna talk about it," Sam said, a sharp edge to his voice, "But nothing gets past you, huh, Advanced Placement?"  
"You really have been spending too much time with her," Kevin laughed, "You sound just like her."  
Sam's face paled again and Kevin felt guilty, biting his lip.  
“How about…I tell you something that you guys don’t know and then you tell me what’s bugging you about what she said?” Kevin asked, “Sometimes it’s easier when you’ve got dirt on the other person.”  
“Kevin…”Sam said, rubbing his face.  
“I’m the one that let Meg out of the chains,” he said sheepishly, “Which wasn't hard to figure out. But I also stole the keys from Dean. And I kinda haven’t put them back. And I put a muscle relaxer in one of his drinks that night that I found in one of your duffel bags. And I think about doing it again all the time.”  
  
Sam choked on his coffee, staring at Kevin. This was the last sort of confession he was expecting. Kevin didn't seem like the type- not only had he snooped around where he wasn't supposed to; he'd stolen from them, then drugged Dean, all to help...Meg. It absolutely blew his mind, so he said the only thing he could think of.  
“You did…what?”  
“It wasn’t a _big_ muscle relaxer,” Kevin replied, looking guilty again, “It was just a _little_ one and I knew it wouldn’t hurt him, it’d just put him to sleep…I mean, he pops vics and oxys with whiskey like they're multivitamins and a glass of milk when he's hurting enough and it hasn't done anything yet but give him a shitty hangover.”  
“You drugged Dean?” Sam demanded, trying to make sure he heard right.  
“I didn’t drug him _a lot_ ," Kevin reiterated, "Just _a little_.”

Sam still didn’t know what to say. Of course he was angry that Kevin had drugged Dean, but he was suddenly struck by the sheer hilarity of it. The sheer hilarity that of all the reasons to drug Dean, he did it to unchain Meg. The sheer hilarity that Kevin even found anything to drug Dean with that would work. The sheer hilarity that Kevin, of all people, had considered doing it again.

It was all so completely _ridiculous_. 

Sam laughed.

It wasn’t his customary two second chuckle, the kind that he usually gave when he knew he was expected to laugh; the kind of laugh that usually made people think that he was patronizing them when the truth was that he just didn’t find anything really funny anymore. The kind of laugh that made his brother cringe in his boots when he heard it, remembering a time his little brother knew how to laugh. The kind of laugh that made everyone around his squirm uncomfortably.   
This wasn’t like that at all. This was a deep in the belly, shoulders shaking kind of laugh. The kind of laugh that he used to laugh when he was younger, when everything was a little less bleak, when things were genuinely funny instead of ironic.

Kevin stared at him in open mouthed amazement, honestly flattered that he’d gotten that kind of response from the older man. He’d never heard Sam actually laugh about anything. Sam was basically the nicest guy he knew – on the inside of course, on the outside Sam could be almost as scary as Dean-but Kevin was almost positive that Sam didn’t really know how to laugh, or smile for real. Every time he did, it just seemed…not fake, but manufactured. Like he spent time doing it in the mirror so people would think it was real when it never looked remotely real. Hearing Sam actually laugh was the second time he'd shocked the living hell out of Kevin that night.

“What?” Kevin asked, unable to wipe the smile from his face. Sam ran his fingers through his hair, his laughter dying away.  
“That was…such a _kid_ thing to say,” Sam said with a small smile, “I forget that sometimes. That you’re a kid.”  
“Happens to us AP kids all the time,” Kevin replied, sighing a little. It was true- when people figured out you were smart when you were just a kid, they treated you like and adult. Gave you grown up burdens and responsibilities; were less tolerant of you being a kid.  
“Why do you think about doing it again?” Sam asked quietly, as if Dean would hear them. Kevin smirked.  
“Have you had a conversation with him? If I could slip him a Xanax I would,” Kevin replied, “Maybe then he’d actually relax.”  
“I know he’s always riding you…”  
“He’s always riding everyone,” Kevin said, “I just kinda wish he’d say…I don’t know, good job or something. Even when I haven’t really gotten what he wants done. I mean…I’m trying. Really, really hard, all the time, and he’s never happy. It’s like having a disappointed, angry dad looking over my shoulder all the time, like nothing is ever enough. My mom was tough on me, but she always told me when I was doing good, when she knew I was trying. That made it easier.”  
“Dean’s a lot like Dad in some ways,” Sam said, “You’re doing a good job, Kevin. Seriously.” But looking at the down-and-out expression on Kevin's face, Sam wondered how much of a good thing that was.  
“You guys never talk about your dad,” Kevin said, picking his nails, “I don't really remember my Dad. What was he like?”  
“He was always riding everyone,” Sam replied, smirking, “And always forgetting we were kids. He did his best, considering.”  
“Sounds like Dean, all right,” Kevin said, sipping his coffee, “What triggered that panic attack?”  
“Everything,” Sam sighed, “The angels. Abbadon. Metatron. Dean. Meg…”  
“Why does Dean hate her so much?” Kevin asked, “She helps you guys all the time. But he hates her- like, hates her the way I hated my 7th grade public speaking class. It makes me nervous.”  
“Why?” Sam asked, puzzled. Kevin bit his lip, turning his mug in his hands.  
“Dunno.”  
“Come on, Kev,” Sam said, patting the teenager’s shoulder, “If it’d make you feel better, I promise I won’t tell Dean.” Kevin laughed a little, shrugging.  
“It’s kinda like…” Kevin paused, frowning, “Well, Meg put her ass on the line for you guys, for the angel tablet. And she helped you guys with Dick Roman. And the fact that Dean still treats her like crap…it’s scary, y’know? Like what’s he gonna do if I can’t translate the tablets? Or …what are you guys gonna do when I finish translating them?”  
“Oh, we’re definitely gonna bury you in a ditch,” Sam joked, “Meg is…really complicated. You met her now…but she used to be darkside. She fucked with us really bad back in the day.”  
“I get that,” Kevin said, “But…”  
“But?”  
“But she kinda has a point.”  
“What about?”  
“About you guys.”  
“I don’t understand.”  
Kevin took a deep breath. He was afraid of upsetting Sam, of course, but part of him was still very terrified of actually making him or Dean genuinely angry. He'd seen what they could d when they were angry. He didn't want to be on the recieving end of that- but he needed to say his piece, ask the question. He figured he'd done enough to at least earn that right.

  
“Well…don’t take this the wrong way. I really appreciate everything you guys have done and all…but why aren’t you guys helping me look for my mom? I mean…I know she’s not that important to you guys and neither am I but…”

Sam held up his hand, shaking his head. What the hell was Kevin talking about? Not important to them? Shit, they cared about him as much as they cared about Cas, as much as they cared about Bobby. Kevin wasn't just a little machine. He was a person, but Sam got the feeling Kevin didn't think that they saw him that way. Did Meg get to him?  
  
“Whoa. Hold on a second,” Sam said firmly, “Did she say that you weren’t that important to us?”  
“No,” Kevin said honestly, “I just feel that way. You guys need me to translate the tablets. That’s why I’m here, why you guys have kept on coming back for me. You guys…well, you want something from me. That’s why I get so nervous. Because what happens when you don’t want something from me anymore?”  
“Kevin, you’re a person,” Sam replied, “You’re not disposable. We care about you- you’re a good kid.”  
“Meg’s a person too,” Kevin said quietly, “I mean, I know she’s technically a demon and all, but she’s not all bad. You even said so yourself. But she’s here because you guys want something from her. Except instead of making her sit in the library and stare at a rock for hours, she’s chained up in that dungeon thing all by herself until she’s useful to you. I guess it just makes me wonder when I’m gonna end up down there with her.”  
“Kevin, you’ll never end up chained up in a room by us,” Sam said, raising an eyebrow, “I know we’re dicks, but we’re not that bad.”  
“You kinda already have,” Kevin said, “I never leave this bunker. I rarely leave the library. You have me translating the tablet, and then you make me your errand boy when you’re hunting- finding files and spells for you, pretending to be an FBI agent… I mean, when was the last time you guys cared about how I am, how I’m dealing with everything? The last time I told you guys I was having splitting migraines and was exhausted from all the work, you bought me ibuprophin and energy pills," he couldn't help but let the bitterness slip into his voice, "I know I’m sounding whiny, but that didn’t really make me feel like I was all that important to you. Or maybe that yeah, I’m important, but just because I’m the only human that can translate the tablets.”  
“Kevin…”  
“See it from where I’m sitting,” Kevin continued, “You guys haven’t really given me much reason to believe in your valiant side, ok? After you guys stabbed Dick Roman, I disappeared, and you never came looking, never answered any of my calls, until you needed me again.”  
“I know it’s no excuse, but I was really messed up at the time, Kevin,” Sam said quietly.  
“Oh hey, me too!” Kevin snapped, glaring at him, “I was busy trying to keep out of Crowley’s hands, and I was really messed up because my biggest problem a year before that was my AP chem test and my SATs. I was really messed up because one day I was scheduling my life right down to bathroom breaks and then I was literally struck by lightning and forced by some divine power- a divine power I didn’t even believe in- to steal my mom’s car and go steal a rock that looked like something out of a cheap Indiana Jones movie spoof. I was really messed up because these huge guys who looked like serial killers suddenly dragged me into their war against angels and demons and monsters and they promised me they’d protect me but they were too ‘messed up at the time’ to do it.”  
Kevin waved his hand in Sam’s face angrily.  
“I was tortured trying to help you! I lost a fucking finger! I know for you guys it’s ‘angel magic good as new’, but it’s not good as new. I still remember it. I still have nightmares about it. My mom is gone. Maybe she’s dead, and the worst part about it is even though I miss her so much and I want to see her so bad, I hope that she’s dead. Because I can’t begin to imagine what Crowley has done to her in a few months when it only took him a few hours to do what he did to me. And you guys won’t even go looking for her.”  
“Kevin, I know you’re gonna think it’s too little too late, and it is,” Sam said honestly, “But I swear, I’m gonna find your mom. And I’m gonna get her back to you in one piece. You’re right. We haven’t given you very much reason to believe in us. We’ve been assholes to you and we’ve screwed you over a lot.  
But I’m gonna do everything I can to make it up to you, because you seriously are a really good kid, and I’m kinda tired of seeing good people getting screwed, you know?”  
“Really?” Kevin asked hopefully, “You’re gonna help me look for her?”  
“It’s really hard losing your mom,” Sam said quietly, “Especially if you have to wonder if she’s alive somewhere, just not with you.”  
“Was it hard for you? You know, when you lost your mom?” Kevin asked. Sam shrugged.   
“Mom wasn’t mine to wonder about or miss, I guess,” Sam said, “That was Dean’s thing. When Dad told me that Mom was dead and dead is when people go away and never come back, I kinda accepted it. I didn’t remember her, not really. I was too young to. But I’ve seen the way it always tore Dean up inside. And I remember when he wasn’t the way he is now. And I don’t think you deserve to feel that.”  
“Tired of good people getting screwed, huh?” Kevin said quietly, sipping his coffee, “So…I guess my only question is, what counts as a person?”  
“What?”

Kevin stood up, setting his mug in the sink.  
“What counts as a person,” he repeated, “Night.”

Sam’s eyes followed Kevin’s retreating back, thinking hard on his last statement.

_What counts as a person?_

How could he explain that personhood was different from humanness? Kevin was a human, a person, a being to be protected on the sole basis of that simple fact. He realized with a twinge of disgust the implication of that- that by merely being, Kevin was better than Meg. It wasn’t as if he disagreed with the notion; Kevin was better than Meg, better than him and his brother, but not because he was human. Because he was…Kevin. He wasn’t sure how to articulate what it was about Kevin that made him so much better than the rest of them, falling back on Meg’s words- that he was stupid and trusting, the innocent kind of stupid and trusting. Kevin was everything he and his brother and everyone else could never afford to be. Kevin was unique because despite everything, he still doled out second chances as if he had never been disappointed. Kevin was the only person who didn’t believe and hope because he needed to, but because he wanted to. Because he didn’t know how not to. But that wasn’t what made him a person, a human. He was already those things; he was just one of the best.

He tried to rationalize that a person was a human and vice versa, but it didn’t set right with him. Madison was a person, but she wasn’t human. Cas was a person, but not a human. Benny, Anna, Amy, they were all people but not humans. He found the question, as simple as it was, becoming ever more complicated. Was a person someone they knew and cared about, regardless of their species? If that was so, Sam had to confront a bigger question- did he actually care about Meg, or was she an object of perverse curiosity? Was she truly a someone to him, or did she remain a something?

He didn’t move from the kitchen table, continuing his internal war over such a simple question.

“You’re up early.”

Sam’s head jerked up to see Dean in the kitchen, fully dressed and showered, brewing a cup of coffee. He rubbed his face, nodding.  
“Yeah,” Sam said, shrugging, “Couldn’t sleep.”  
“Yeah?” Dean said, a look of concern on his face, “Everything okay with um…everyone?” Sam gave him a weird look, wrinkling his nose.  
“Well, yeah…I mean, there’s some stuff I need to talk to you about, but uh….everyone…is fine.” Dean nodded, pulling up the stool that Kevin had been sitting on a few hours before, hunching over the table.  
“Okay, shoot,” Dean said, “If it kept you up all night, it’s obviously gotta be a big deal.”  
“It kinda is,” Sam said, “You…you ever think about how Kevin’s doing?”  
“Yeah,” Dean said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, “I’m always worried about that kid.”  
“You ever ask him how he is?”  
“Well…” Dean cleared his throat, a flush of red creeping up his neck, “I ask him how he’s doing.”  
“I don’t mean how he’s doing on the tablets,” Sam said firmly, “I mean how he’s doing.”  
“Jesus, it’s too fucking early for this,” Dean mumbled, rubbing his face, “No, I haven’t, not recently.”  
“And that doesn’t bother you?”  
“Not particularly, no, considering the whole world is going to hell yet again,” Dean snapped, standing up as the timer on the coffee maker went off, “We don’t exactly have time to all sit in a circle, holding hands and talking about our feelings.”

Sam stared at him indignantly, deciding that talking was obviously not going to work.

“Well, if that’s how you feel,” Sam snapped, getting himself a cup of coffee, “Then I’ll look for Linda on my own.”  
“What?” Dean asked, his brow furrowing, “Sam, we don’t-“  
“Have the time?” Sam asked, sitting back down, “We have time to look for Cas, but not Linda?”  
“Dude, Cas is a priority because he’s the only one who can tell us what the hell is going on. Besides the fact that he’s a human now and has just about every fallen angel gunning for his ass. We owe it to him-“  
“But we don’t owe Kevin?”  
“That’s not what I said!” Dean snapped, “But we need to have our priorities straight. And at the moment, as much as it blows, Linda isn’t a priority.”  
“Maybe she isn’t to you,” Sam replied, “But she is to me.”  
“Since when?” Dean demanded, “Just yesterday, you weren’t concerned about anything but Cas and the whole gates of heaven being closed issue.”  
“Well, she’s a priority now,” Sam said simply. Dean rolled his eyes, sighing tiredly.  
“Fine. I’ll help, but my main focus is keeping Cas from getting shanked, or angels taking over the world. You wanna look for Linda in your spare time, that’s your choice.”  
“When did you get like this?” Sam asked, staring at his brother. Dean glanced over at him, his lips pursing.

“What are you talking about?”  
“When did you start caring more about angels than you did about people?”  
“I don’t!” Dean yelled, slamming his palm down on the table, “It’s a choice of one person or every person. Do we go and find Linda or do we save the world? Besides, I don’t wanna be the one who breaks this to you, but how do you even know Linda is still alive? For all you know, you’ll be looking for a dead body.”  
“I’m tired of letting people fall through the cracks just because the world is a second from imploding!” Sam yelled back, “I’m tired of making the choice to abandon good people for the sake of everyone, because every single time, I end up regretting it. I’m tired of good people getting screwed because we make the choice to let them get screwed.”  
“Sam, I’m not really seeing a logical solution here,” Dean snapped, “We do everything we can. God knows I wish we could do more, but we can’t.”  
“We can, but it’d be hard.”  
“Everything is hard enough already!” Dean argued, “We barely sleep and eat as it is! I’m all for being all work and no play, just as much as you, but I’m gonna be honest- I’m getting tired, Sam. I can’t juggle 5 cases and the world ending at the same time anymore. I can’t keep everything together while trying to do everything you want me to do.’  
“I’m sorry, I didn’t think about how hard it must be for you to do all this by yourself,” Sam snarked, “I shouldn’t be putting so much pressure on you, seeing as you have to do everything.”  
“What, am I supposed to feel like you’re here with me when just a few weeks ago you were ready to kill yourself?” Dean snarked back, “I guess it’s hard to deal with everything while I’m wondering if you’re gonna go and finish the last trial while I’m asleep.”

Sam’s face paled, biting his lip as Dean nodded, sipping his coffee.

“You really thought I didn’t know?” Dean asked, “I’m stupid, Sammy, but I ain’t that stupid. I know you’ve been sneaking down there to talk to her or do whatever it is you’re doing down there. I thought we were past sneaking around each other.”  
“It’s not like that,” Sam replied defensively.  
“It isn’t? Then tell me what it’s like,” Dean demanded, “What, she helping you look for Linda, she giving you information? Or can’t you resist the urge to thumb your nose ay me for just five seconds? What, can’t you see her for what she really is?”  
“What is she then, Dean?” Sam exploded, “A demon? Yeah, I’m aware! But she’s a demon who has helped us a lot!”  
“Oh yeah, because she had a bunch of other options,” Dean replied, rolling his eyes, “Help or die isn’t much of a choice, Sammy. She does what’s good for her and no one else. If anything, that should be clearer to you than ever. She’ll do anything she has to; tell you anything you want to hear in order to get you on her side. That’s how she is. She’s just another Ruby, except you’re an even bigger idiot this time since you’ve already been through this once. You ever think she might be trying to get to you so she could let Lucifer out again?”  
“Yeah, actually, I have,” Sam snapped right back, “She wants Lucifer in the cage as much as we do. She doesn’t want him out! If anything, she wants to make sure he’ll never get out! You don’t know shit about her, Dean. And I’m tired of you always acting like there isn’t a single chance that anyone could change. Just because you can’t doesn’t mean no one else can. You don’t know her.”  
“Oh, and you do? What, did she give you some sob story about remembering what it was like to be human, buttering you up and telling you that she’s seen the error in her ways?”  
“No, she hasn’t said anything like that. But I can tell, there’s something different about her. She’s changed since we first met her.”  
“Demons don’t change, Sam. They just get sneakier. She might have done some good things, but that’ll never change what she is- an it. A demon.”  
“And when does she stop being an it to you and become a person?” Sam asked, stunning himself into silence.

Well, there was his answer. He did think of her as a person…he was just too afraid to admit it because Dean was so adamant about her not being a person. All their lives, they were taught that anything that wasn’t human was not a person, that they didn’t deserve mercy or kindness. They were its to be eliminated. It was beaten into their skulls for their entire lives- _there is us, and there is them. They need to be destroyed so we can survive._  
But did that really make it ok?

“What the fuck does that mean?” Dean asked, wrinkling his nose, “Sam, she’s not a person.”  
“Why?”  
“What the fuck do you mean, why?” Dean shouted, leaping to his feet, “Because she killed Pastor Jim, she kidnapped and tortured Dad, she killed Jo and Ellen, she was Lucifer’s bitch, you need a few more reasons? How about the fact that she possessed you and killed hunters in your body, and tortured Jo? Are those things that people do?”  
“Have you met the people we have, Dean? Some days I don’t know what scares me more- demons or people!”  
“That’s shit and you know it,” Dean snapped, “Maybe if she acted like a person and hadn’t tried to destroy everything and everyone we care about, tried to kill us, I’d be more willing to give a fuck. But as it stands? She’s an it. And if I had my way, she’d be a dead it.”  
“Well, she can be an it outside that fucking dungeon downstairs,” Sam replied, pouring the cold remains of his coffee down the kitchen sink, “I can’t sleep when she’s caged like an animal.”  
“She’s caged up like an animal because she’s worse than an animal, Sam. Animals kill to survive. She kills because she likes it.”  
“But you’ve been more than happy to let her kill when it helps us, whether she likes it or not!” Sam yelled, leaning heavily against the sink, “I’m letting her out. I don’t care.”  
“Oh no,” Dean said, folding his arms, “No. She stays down there until we carry out her dead body or she’s human.”  
“Then I’ll make her human!”  
“That’s not a fucking option!”  
“Then you shouldn’t have suggested it.”  
“I didn’t! You let her out, you put Kevin in danger, and that runs opposite of your sudden concern for his welfare.”  
Sam snorted, rolling his eyes.

“The only person who would be in danger if she was out of there is you,” Sam replied, “Kevin let her out of the chains weeks ago. He gave her a pen, gives her food, and apparently spends a lot of time talking to her when we aren’t here. If she was going to hurt him, or me, she would’ve done it already. You’re not worried about Kevin. You’re scared of her.”

Dean didn’t want to admit it, but Sam was right. He was afraid of that demon bitch- he knew what she was capable of, he’d seen her handiwork in hell. He might’ve been confident that given the right circumstances and the right weapon, he could gank her easily enough. But her pissed, in a closed space with lots of weapons for her to get her claws on…he’d have to stop sleeping with one eye open and just not sleep at all.

“You’re not letting her out,” Dean said firmly through gritted teeth, “We have shit to do, and worrying about what the fuck the demon bitch is up to while we’re gone is not something we need.”  
“Fine,” Sam snapped, trying to push past Dean and having his arm grabbed.  
“Sam.”  
“Let go of me,” Sam said shortly, not looking at him, “Now.”  
“Look at me.”  
“No.”  
“You’re acting like a fucking kid!” Dean yelled, releasing Sam’s arm roughly. Sam rubbed away his brother’s bruising grip, his mouth pressed in a thin line. He was furious, but he decided it was better not to even argue. Dean wasn’t going to give in. But some part of him, deep inside, a part that he always silenced, jumped. Why was he always the one who had to let it go? Why was he always the one who had to keep quiet? To apologize? Didn't he have a right to be angry? Didn't he have a right to being heard?

Dean glared at Sam’s shoulders until they stiffened, turning back to him. Any semblance of Sam’s demeanor was gone, replaced by Ezekiel’s.

“You have made the right decision, Dean,” Ezekiel said firmly, “She is dangerous.”  
“Yeah, you think I don’t know that? Wish you could make him understand that!” Dean replied, leaning against the door and looking around, “What has he been doing down there with her?”  
“He exchanges his blood for the tale of her human life,” Ezekiel said, “It is…troublesome.”  
“Why?” Dean asked, biting his lip, “What kind of lies is she feeding him?”  
“She invokes pity and brotherhood in him,” he replied, “He is beginning to trust her.”  
“Jesus Christ.”  
“You must kill her.”  
“Come again?” Dean asked, his head shooting up, “What do you mean, ‘I must kill her’?”  
“You already wish to,” Ezekiel said, “She knows that I am here, and she wishes to tell Sam. There is too much that still needs done to save your brother, Dean. She jeopardizes that.”  
“I can’t exactly just kill her,” Dean said, “It isn’t that simple, dude. As much as I hate to admit it, we need her.”  
“You need me more,” Ezekiel replied coldly.  
“You threatening me?” Dean asked, an eyebrow raised.  
“No. But the fact remains- You need me more than you need her. She must be eliminated. It is just as you have told Sam- she is a demon. A dangerous, intelligent, ancient demon. It is imperative that she be expelled immediately.”  
“I’ll figure something out,” Dean replied, “I don’t think killing her right now is the best idea.”  
“Why do you hesitate so?” Ezekiel asked, cocking his head to the side, “You do not trust her presence. You know she is evil of the worst sort. You wish to kill her. You have made that clear. Now you must, and you hesitate. Do you feel as Sam does?”  
“How does Sam feel?” Dean asked, ignoring guilt bubbling in his throat. He was hesitating because as much as he fucking hated her, Sam did have a point. No matter her motivations, she had helped them. Just giving her the axe without a second thought wasn’t something that Dean could do, as much as he might’ve wanted to.  
“That she is a person, and deserves a second chance in return for what she has done to assist you. A naïve and childish thought borne of his own guilt.”  
“Absolutely not,” Dean said firmly, “I told you, I’ll deal with it. I’ll have to figure something out, I always do. Just give me some time.”  
“Time, Dean Winchester,” he said, “Is something I have given you an abundance of. This issue does not require time. It requires action. And if you do not take action…I will.”  
Ezekiel turned away, Sam’s body returning to his usual posture as he walked away, apparently oblivious to the conversation between the angel inside him and Dean.

Dean sighed, clinging to his coffee mug like it was a life preserver in stormy seas. He had no idea what he was gonna do- he thought he had the situation under control, that he could handle it, but Ezekiel was getting more and more demanding; using his ability to heal Sam as a weapon. He started wonder when exactly everything got so fucking complicated- an angel in his brother, triaging his spleen. A demon in the basement, probably trying to seduce his brother into letting her wreak havoc on them and the world. Angels running around with their heads cut off, trying to figure out why they got booted out of the pearly gates. A knight of Hell bent on taking over existence.  
What happened to the good old days of salt and burns, average monster hunts? Shit, Dean thought to himself, they hadn’t hunted an actual monster in months. They were mired in a war that had been going on for years, and it just kept getting worse and worse. It’d already killed him and his brother. It’d torn them apart and shoved them together and torn them apart again; and Dean actually could laugh at a time when the biggest rift between him and Sam was Sam going to college. It had seemed like such a huge betrayal at the time, when it was probably the least of the things they’d ever done to each other in their lives now.  
But that didn’t mean he was just going to forget about Sam’s habit of throwing everything away when he got some stupid idea in his head, when he fell in love with some new monster- a demon or her blood or some new moral code or whatever it was. He didn’t trust Sam as far as he could throw him on that front. Sam was just too damn emotional for his own good. He’d get ideas in his head and let them eat away at him until he just about lost his damn mind.  
Dean’s job was always to protect Sam from the world. But how exactly was he supposed to protect Sam from himself?

He stood up, finishing his coffee and setting the mug in the sink. He hated Meg. She did what was good for her, it just happened to align with what was good for them more often than not in recent times. He decided that it didn’t matter what she did, or what she said. She was a temptation, a big one for Sam. And if he couldn’t protect Sam from himself, then he’d just remove temptation from his path.


	7. Chapter 7

Ezekiel- actually, Gadreel, he resisted the urge to cringe each time he heard that name- knew that Dean’s words were idle. He could see it in the human’s eyes- he feared upsetting Sam, he feared a rift between them growing and taking Sam from him again; but what he didn’t seem to realize was that Gadreel was the one who had the power. He was in control. He could take Sam from Dean in an instant- it wouldn’t be difficult, not really. It wasn’t what he wanted, but should it become necessary, he would do so without hesitation. Hesitation, pity, mercy; these were all things that landed him where he was now.

He said it was a mistake, letting the serpent in, letting Lucifer in… but deep inside himself he knew this was a lie, a lie he told himself in the dark for thousands of years, a lie that he used to comfort himself. Lucifer’s charms worked just as well on him as they did everyone else. The whispers hadn’t spread to his ears, separate from his brethren- Lucifer spoke of rebellion, of hatred for the humans. Father had not yet cast him out, hoping he would see the error in his ways; and so he continued unabated.  
And Gadreel. Well, he was the perfect pawn.

_“Brother, do you not trust me? It has never been my intention to bring harm to you or any of my siblings. I only want to see them, so I can understand why they are so loved. I don’t understand, when Father made us, that he needs these…creatures.”_

He hesitated when Lucifer came.

_“Do you not wonder as well, Gadreel? Do you not wonder why the Father has charged you to guard them, to protect them, when he has never done the same for us? I don’t want to feel this, brother. I only want to understand.”_

He pitied his anger, his distraught countenance.

_“You have done me a great service, brother. Surely your actions shall be recognized.”_

He allowed him in.

_“Do as you must, brother. I will not strike against you. Can you find it in your heart to draw the blood of your brethren?”_

And he had mercy when he slithered out again, refusing to fell his elder brother.

Demons were not called Lucifer’s children for no reason- they knew the honeyed poison that could weaken even the strongest of resolves. They knew how to twist the mind and ensnare the senses, to make up down and wrong right. They knew how to distort and confound. They knew how to exploit kindness, mercy, empathy, weakness. Lucifer had done it to him. They had done it to Sam in the past, and another one was trying to do it again.

And if Dean did not want to see that and take care of the monstrosity, then Gadreel would simply do it himself. There was too much at stake- the loss of Sam’s body, but a nagging guilt, a need to protect that Gadreel did not expect.

He knew the bitter sting of a failure to see the truth; blindness caused by compassion. He knew the debt that had to be paid for such oversights, such failings. He would never wish such a thing on his worst enemy, and he could not help the twinge of pain at the thought of his temporary- hopefully permanent- vessel experiencing such pain again. It would be cruel, inhumane to allow such a thing to happen.   
He couldn’t stand by and watch as Dean allowed such a thing to happen. He could not stand by and let this filth, this abomination, rob him of his vessel, or rob Sam of what he worked so hard to fix.   
No, to let that happen would be to allow the serpent in the garden again.   
He would not- he could not.

He walked to Sam’s room, digging around for a weapon, any weapon, to use against the demon. He couldn’t dispatch of her with his grace- he wasn’t strong enough, between being drained and the hints of her power he felt when he laid dormant inside Sam. That was something that troubled him greatly about her- she was clearly no ordinary demon; clearly not. She was too old. She knew too much. She had served Lucifer for too long. She exuded too much power; power that he knew neither Winchester could truly feel, but that Sam had somewhat sensed.

He always sat quietly in the back of Sam’s mind as he tried to pick apart the demon wench in his head. He was privy to all of Sam’s recollections of her displays of power, her behavior, her connections- and while Sam didn’t seem to be able to put the pieces together to the end result he was looking for, Gadreel had gathered enough knowledge to know that she was a very big threat.

He found Sam’s angel blade under his pillow, tucking it in the waistband of Sam’s jeans before starting his trek to the “dungeon” as they called it- careful to avoid Dean or Kevin along the way. He knew that either one of them would try to stop him, but his mind was set. He may not’ve been able to kill her- Dean was correct, she was necessary to translating the tablet- but he was certain he could frighten her into silence. It wouldn’t be difficult.  
Like any other creature, she feared death, and she wouldn’t doubt that he would kill her. After all, Angels killed demons with no qualms. He opened the door quietly, seeing the light from the hallway spill over her bent figure, straightening up to look at him. He flicked on the light and she squinted at him.

“Sam,” Meg said, jumping in her seat as she realized who it was. But as her eyes adjusted, she realized her mistake, sitting back in her seat. She could tell, just by his gait, that it wasn’t him- if the tattered, ragged grace that filled the space wasn’t enough of a hint.  
“Not Sam,” she said, smirking, “So you must be Sam’s bunkmate. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Gadreel towered over her, glaring down at her, hoping to exude power, to show her physically that he was not threatened by her. A brother once called it “peacocking”, and said that he was always quite adept at it.

“Well?” she snapped, raising an eyebrow, “You gonna say something, or just stand there and try to use Sam’s size and your sad excuse for grace to intimidate me?”  
“You will not leave this room alive, Demon,” Gadreel said harshly. Meg folded her arms, rolling her eyes and snorting. He felt a surge of fury at her cavalier indifference to him- how dare this creature? How could she be so…impudent?  
“I didn’t figure I would, but thanks for that update,” she replied, narrowing her eyes at him, “So, you come to do the deed? Because I would really love to see you pull that off.”  
“You think that I will not?”  
“No,” She said, looking at her nails, “I know that you would if you could, but you can’t. I know that Dean needs me to play Rosetta Stone. I know that’d be a big risk for you, seeing as I’m growing on two out of four of you. I also know you don’t have the juice. And…well, suffice it to say that I am very resilient to just about anything else. After all, I did manage to survive getting torched by holy fire- something else that you don’t have with you. Come on, sweetheart. I’m sure you’ve got some kind of clue what kinda old I am- I know you’ve gotta be a bit smarter than the average bear to get inside Sammy’s sweet, tight body. I would know, I been there. So, what is it you really want, you ineffectual harp strummer?”

Gadreel was taken aback by her nonchalant attitude- she was smarter than he’d given her credit for. He fought the anger flowing through his body, knowing that as infuriating as she was, she was very right. So, he decided to take a more diplomatic route.

“You will not speak to Sam Winchester any longer,” Gadreel commanded, “I will ensure that you receive his blood.”

Meg raised an eyebrow, tapping her lip. Wow, the little cloudhopper must’ve been desperate- he was squirming, and she was disgusted. What kind of idiot gets in a Winchester without having his bases covered? Then again, he probably didn’t count on Hell’s most wanted getting cozy with his preferred meatsack…

“Huh, that’s some offer,” She said, squinting at him, “But there’s a little problem with that.”  
“What is the problem?”  
“You seem to be under the impression that I’m just in it for his blood.”  
“And you are not?”  
Meg shrugged, leaning back and propping her ankles up on the table between them. So unimaginative. So narrow minded. So…boring.  
“Nope.”  
“Then what is your goal?”  
She squinted at him again, wrinkling her nose and letting out a short bark of a laugh.

“Are you serious? That’s your big interrogation technique; just ask me what I’m actually after? God, no wonder they have no idea who you are. You must’ve been some kind of maroon,” she snapped, throwing her head back, “How exactly is everyone in this place but the nerdy Asian kid so lame? It’s gotten to the point that I miss that fat cocky bastard Crowley- at least he was a challenge.”

Gadreel leaned over her, glaring menacingly. His patience was running thin, and the rage inside him- built up after thousands of years of torture, of mistreatment- was threatening to burst for the and wreak it’s vengeance on her.  
“You’re too arrogant for your own good, Demon.”  
“We all got our little problems, wingnut. Some are bigger than others,” she replied, flashing him a nasty, wolfish grin.

Gadreel’s hand snapped out, seizing her by the throat and slamming her onto the table. He had no more patience for this demon toying with him- he had enough of being toyed with, being treated as a- what did she call him?- maroon. He was his father’s most trusted angel, one of the strongest, trained by Michael himself in combat, a deadly force to be reckoned with. He was sick of being treated as if he wasn’t a threat, and this demon pushed him to his breaking point. He felt the soft flesh of her vessel beneath his hands, crushing, bruising, with enough force that if her power were not keeping him from doing so, he would be crushing her windpipe and snapping her neck.

“Nice grip,” she winced, “Hoping to beat me into submission? Cause I gotta warn you, that kinda turns me on.”  
“Shut your filthy mouth, demon,” he hissed, leaning close to her face and squeezing her throat harder, all of his strength in his grip, enough to cause even her pain. She struggled, grabbing his hands out of reflex and clawing at them, and he fought the smirk that wanted to cross his face, seeing the pain in her eyes. Finally, he was the one giving the pain. Finally, he was the punisher.  
“Still not interested,” she wheezed, glaring at him. He picked her up, slamming her back down on the table again as she moaned, her head making a sickening crack as it whacked against the heavy wood.  
“Now we’re getting to the fun part,” she said, still struggling against his grip, “Come on, babe. Make me bleed, I like a little bloodplay.”  
“Do you ever stop talking?” he hissed, bouncing her head off the table once more.  
“Nope,” she winced. She watched as he reached behind him, pulling out an angel blade a pressing it against her face.  
Now, that’s what she was waiting for- for him to get angry enough to use the shiny pig sticker he’d brought, angry enough to give her what she wanted, what she really wanted. She stared at him evenly, daring him, her lips pressed in a tight line.

“Go ahead,” she hissed, “Do it. No skin off my nose- figuratively speaking, of course.”  
Gadreel looked down at her, confused.  
“You do not fear Death?”  
“There’s nothing to fear but fear itself, Feathers,” she said, looking up at him, “Do it.” She strained her body upwards; forcing the angel blade to cut into her cheek.  
“You said so yourself. I’m not leaving this room alive- might as well do it now.”

The angel pulled away, staring at her, unnerved. She wasn’t lying, and he could tell, but he had never encountered a demon that was so unfazed by the idea of being killed. In fact, the last time that he knew a being so unfazed by the threat of death was when he was locked up, when he was with Abner. He looked into the demon’s eyes and recalled the same look in other eyes, eyes that he cared for. He recognized the pleading in her eyes, the desire for death all too familiar.  
His rage ebbed away with this realization- this demon was a threat, an abomination, but those facts didn’t change the ache inside him.

She stared up at the ceiling, her eyes blank and unseeing as he pulled away. Another chance at the end slipped through her grasp at the last moment.

“Coward.”

She lay on the table, not moving as he pressed his back against the wall.  
_Coward._  
The word echoed in the room, rattling around inside him. Yet again, he was unable to move to do what needed doing. Yet again, he failed. This demon was odd, disconcerting. She wanted to die- she’d made that clear, and for some reason that had made the very idea of doing so repugnant to him. He wasn’t sure if it was actually him, or if Sam was making him feel that way. It was just as difficult for angels possessing humans as it was for demons- the vessel’s emotions, thoughts, sometimes bled through. But it was so strong that he had to get away from her.

“Why won’t you kill me?” she asked, still staring up at the ceiling, “I know why Sam won’t, I got a couple guesses why Dean won’t, but you have nothing to lose and everything to gain by killing me.” She let out a soft sigh, her voice barely above a whisper, “Why won’t anyone kill me? What’s a girl gotta do to get shanked in this fucking place?”  
“It is unnerving when your enemy craves death,” Gadreel replied honestly, “It is repugnant to the expectation of the situation.”  
“Guess it must feel like you’re doing me a favor,” she sighed, looking over at him, “You want to die too, or at least, you did until a very short time ago. I can tell, you know- you can’t lie to a liar.”

Gadreel recoiled again at her remark, her insight unwelcome. When he looked at her, he was reminded of Abner, but it was true, he was reminded of himself as well, but he still was incensed by the remark. She could never understand the guilt, the pain that he’d suffered. She couldn’t know who he was.

“I am no liar, demon.”  
“Ugh,” Meg groaned, sitting up and crossing her legs, “What is it with you guys? Get real. ‘Demon’, ‘Angel’, ‘Monster’, we’re not all that different- how do you ever expect us all to sit together and sing kumbya if we just keep sticking labels on one another? After all, you and I will be seeing a lot of each other. Apparently, we already have.” She tapped her nails against the table, leaning forward.  
“Now, since you’re snuggled all tight like a bug in a rug in sweet Sammy’s noodle, I can only assume you’ve heard all the gory and sordid details that I’ve told him thus far. Which is unfair, since you know lots of my secrets and I only know three of yours.”  
“You know nothing of me, demon,” he snapped.  
“’You know nothing of me, meh meh meh’,” she repeated, imitating him in a nasally voice, “I know that you’re not who you say you are, that it’s a big fat secret that you’re staying in Sam, and that like me, the tender embrace of sweet oblivion is something you crave. That’s why you won’t kill me. Because you looked and saw the same thing that you see in yourself in me. That’s the most amusing thing about humans and angels like you, like Castiel- you have that same sort of…flaw, if you will. You’re easily swayed when you think someone or something is like you.”  
“I am nothing like you!” Gadreel snarled, “You’re nothing, filth.”  
“Come on,” she snorted, “Angels, demons, we’re two sides of the same coin, sweetheart. Mindless devotion to our masters, cannon fodder in the great pissing match between Michael and Lucifer, perfectly shaped cylindrical black and white pieces in God and Death’s eternal backgammon game…the only difference is that you don’t think you have free will- but then again, that’s been proven to be incorrect.” She jumped off the table, coming to the edge of the Devil’s trap, “Tell me I’m wrong. You can’t, that’s the most pathetic thing about this whole nutty world, honey. I’ve never gotten that, still don’t. We all wanna pretend that we’re so different, but strip us down to the studs, and we’re all built the same. Ain’t that just a bitch?”

Gadreel refused to look at her, his jaw twitching. It was a little too close to the truth for him.

“We’re not all that different, you and I,” she said softly, looking up at Sam’s face with Ezekiel’s presence staring back at her, the sight almost enough to make her shudder, “And we share a similar desire.”  
“What desire is that, demon?”  
“You’re supposed to heal Sam from the inside. That’s your rent. I want Sam patched up too. So let’s test the limits of that desire. It’s mutually beneficial for us to look the other way, don’t you think?”  
“Why do you care what happens to Samuel Winchester?” Gadreel asked, looking confused, “Demons have a general distaste for humans. Humans have what you cannot have.”  
“What, life?” she replied, laughing, “Honey, I could’ve had life. Sammy here almost made me human. That’s why you’re stitching him together. That’s the problem- the only person in this bunker who understands that the absolute last thing I want to be is human is the one person who would never believe my reasoning. I know what happens to demons who become human. That’s not for me.”  
“Unrepentant,” Gadreel snorted disgustedly.  
“And unbothered. And impenitent,” she said, lifting a hand and ticking off the words on her fingers, “Remorseless, predatory, barbarous, prehensile, antipathetic, pugnacious, merciless, pitiless, acrimonious, pestilent, noxious, shameless, sarcastic, spiteful, splenetic, slaughterous, savage, stony, soulless, synonyms,” she rattled off slowly at first, speaking faster and culminating in a high pitched laugh, “Wordplay is fun but foreplay is better.”  
“You’re disgusting.”  
“Tell me about it, babe,” she replied sweetly, batting her eyelashes, “It’s always us greasy sluts who get the nice church boys. They all wanna save us. I mean, that’s Sammy’s whole shtick. Save the poor evil demon for she knows not what she does. Born in evil, bred in evil, raised in evil, blah blah, Doctor Phil, blah. I know what I am- just a filthy, heartless demon- and I accept it. That’s always what gets their juices flowing, when we’ve accepted what we are.”

Gadreel looked at her curiously, “Most demons boast of their power and superiority. Why do you not do so as well?”  
“I don’t need to,” She replied, shrugging, “What, do you really think this little devil’s trap could actually hold me? Or that just about anything the Winchesters do could actually hurt me? Please. One of the top 4 oldest living demons in existence. I might be trash, but I got a few whore’s tricks in my bag. I don’t like waving my dick around- when it needs to come out, it comes out. But you know that. That’s why you brought the pigsticker.”  
“You speak of yourself degradingly.”  
“Keeps me humble. Learned not to get too big a head from you angels- no wonder you all fell to earth, with your fat egos weighing you down like that,” she replied, “Anyways, I figure I’ll save you tree toppers the trouble of insulting me, because your insults are lame and boring and all the same- whore, demon, filth, scum. So, let’s get to the fun part. You came down here to keep me away from Sam, and that’s just not gonna happen. I like it here. And I like having a big wall of hunter to entertain me.”

“You will yield,” Gadreel hissed, grabbing her by the front of her shirt and lifting her off the ground. She laid her hands over is, staring him in the eye.

“Offer me a better deal,” she said softly, “Or get the fuck out of my face.”

He stared Meg in the face evenly, taking in what kind of threat she was, what kind of opponent. He knew she was powerful, a step below a knight of hell if he had to guess. She certainly would be difficult to eliminate, but not impossible.

Both of them looked over as Dean opened the door, twirling the key ring on his finger.

“Alright bitch, we need to have-“ the words died in his throat, seeing Gadreel’s towering form lifting Meg a good foot off the ground, “What the fuck is this?”  
“Deano!” Meg exclaimed brightly, giving him a smirk, “You wanna join in the powwow too? More the merrier.”  
“Put her down! Now!” Dean yelled, rushing forward and shoving Gadreel away from her. She hit the floor on her feet, watching the two with amusement. She never thought she’d see the day that Dean Fucking Winchester would stop an angel from having its way with her. Clearly, she was some sort of pawn they were fighting over. She wasn’t real into being a pawn in anyone’s games anymore, but this could get interesting. She watched with keen eyes

“Dude, I told you I’d take care of it,” Dean hissed, “You didn’t even give me a half hour!”  
“I told you, the situation does not need time, it needs action,” Gadreel responded plainly, making Meg laugh and draw their gazes back to her. This was too good.  
“Are you serious right now?” she said, sitting on the table again, “I’m a situation now? Damn, you boys sure know how to make a girl feel special.”  
“Shut up,” they both snapped at her, making her chuckle and lift her hands in mock surrender. Clearly they were more interested in their argument than her. Fine with her- she was a lot more interested in their pissing match than she was in fucking with them.

“You don’t decide when I do things or how I do them,” Dean hissed, “That was not the fucking deal!”  
“No, the agreement was I heal your brother, you keep anything from putting me or that goal in danger,” Gadreel snapped back.  
“She’s locked up in a fucking dungeon!” Dean yelled, gesturing around the room, “What more do you fucking want, Zeke?”  
“I told you. She’s dangerous. She needs to be eliminated.”

Dean rubbed his temples in frustration, making Meg raise an eyebrow. Dean wasn’t the type to hesitate. He wanted to stab a bitch, he stabbed a bitch. If this was the ultimatum, she wasn’t sure why she was still alive, honestly. She knew that Dean would probably get a permanent boner from cutting her throat, and here was some angel- an angel who could take control of Sam at any time, like he was doing now- giving him a sealed invitation to do what he wanted. So what the hell was up with the hesitation? She wasn’t the only demon who could translate the tablets with Kevin. In fact, the fat bastard could do it. Not as easily, but still. He had options. Was he that stupid, or did he have an ulterior motive? Usually she’d go with option two, but Winchesters…well, suffice it to say that it was a good thing they were so fucking pretty.

“How exactly is she dangerous to you?” Dean demanded, “She’s a fucking demon, demons are mincemeat to you guys. What danger could she possibly fucking be?”  
“She knows- she will tell Sam.”  
“Okay, here,” Dean snapped, turning to Meg, “You tell, I shank you, got it, bitch?”

Meg examined her nails causally. _Oh, Dean,_ she thought to herself, _So pretty and so so stupid_.  
“Crystal, boss hog,” she replied.  
“There. She knows for a fact that she’s dead if she tells.”  
“Yeah, Zeke,” she said, putting emphasis on what she was pretty positive was a false identity, “If I tell, someone gets dead.”  
“You get dead,” Dean said. Meg nodded still staring at Gadreel evenly. He met her gaze and they both knew- Dean’s threat was nothing. In fact, it was, more than anything, an appealing offer.  
“Yeah, I get dead.”  
“And getting dead is not on your agenda.”

Fucking Winchesters. How Dean made It past infancy, she would never know.

“Sure,” Meg said evenly, deciding that Gadreel really couldn’t do anything and taking a shot, “Neither is Sam getting dead.”  
“What?” Dean said, “Sam doesn’t get dead. Sam’s perfectly fine. Sam’s not the issue.”  
“He could get dead, and he really is the issue,” she said, the staring competition between her and Gadreel continuing, “Dean, why can’t Sam know that he’s possessed by an angel?”  
“Because he’ll kick him out.”  
“Exactly.”

Dean gave her a confused look, trying to understand what the hell was up with the death stare between her and the angel, and why she was bringing up something so obvious, “So? What your point?”  
“My point is,” Meg said, “What’s to say old Zeke here doesn’t just whisk our dear Sammy away in the night if you don’t do what he says? That’s how possession works, honey. I can patch people up on the inside too. It benefits me when I’m inside them. Puts them into excellent working order to do what I want. Just like it benefits Zeke to patch up Sammy. So Humpty Dumpty is put back together again. So he has a nice, comfy pair of shoes- or, a nice comfy vessel. Nothing is free, Dean. Guy like you ought to know that by now.”  
“Cas vouched for him.”  
“Because good old Cas’s information has always been so reliable!” she replied, finally shifting her gaze to Dean, “He vouched for a name, Dean, over the phone-“  
“How the fuck do you know that?” Dean demanded.   
She rolled her eyes, ignoring him and continuing, “Do you know what this Ezekiel looks like? Did Cas see him? For a guy who uses false identities a lot, you’re stupidly willing to rely on a name.”  
“Shut your whore mouth, demon,” Gadreel hissed as he lunged forward, only stopped by Dean’s arm blocking his path.

“Get out,” Dean said quietly, not breaking eye contact with Meg.  
“But-“  
“I’ll deal with this. It’s obvious she’s just trying to push your buttons. If you can’t be objective and ignore her mouth, get out,” Dean said evenly, looking over at him, “It’s not like we can really threaten each other without hurting ourselves, Zeke. You need me, I need you. So, let me deal with this.”  
“This is not over, demon.”

Gadreel shot Meg a dirty look before lumbering off, leaving Meg and Dean alone. The air was heavy with the weight of the truth- Meg was right, and no matter how she got the information, she had a point. He turned back to her, folding his arms.

“I’ll bite,” Dean said casually, pulling over a chair and sitting, “You think Zeke isn’t Zeke.”  
“I know he’s lying about something,” Meg replied, “I’m pretty fucking sure it’s about who he is, and I know for a fact he’s lying about what he wants. Where does he make out in this deal?”  
“Maybe he’s just trying to help,” Dean said, “Not everyone is self-serving like you.”  
“Not true,” Meg said, snapping her fingers, “Every creature serves itself. Like I said, nothing is free. Not even you saving people. It’s not about them, babe, hate to break it to ya. It’s about you.”  
“What the fuck do you mean?” Dean demanded, “You think I bust my fucking ass trying to save people for my health?”  
“Please, when’s the last time you actually saved someone with the actual intent of it happening, instead of it being a happy accident? Besides, you know I’m right. When you were just a wee baby, it was all about making Daddy love you- by the way, how did that work out?- and after you and I got cozy in hell, it’s all about making up for all those poor souls you played slap chop with.” She leaned forward, a cruel smirk on her face, “How many of them are demons now, do you think?”  
“Shut the fuck up.”  
“Like I was saying,” she said loudly, “Nothing, and I mean nothing, is free. No one does anything because they’re just nice people, and especially not angels. What happens when Sam is all healed, huh? What happens to ‘Zeke’ then? He can’t stay inside Sam, you don’t intend for him to, and he knows that. So where’s the long term for him?”  
“We can put him back in his last vessel,” Dean said, “We’ll find him a new one.”  
“Why would he trade a Station Wagon for a Ferrari?” Meg asked, “You and Sam are basically the luxury sports cars of Angel vessels, I mean, come on- Lucifer and Michael’s intended meatsacks. Are you naive, or just plain stupid?”  
“So, you think Zeke’s big master plan is to…hijack Sam’s body for himself?”

“I don’t know,” Meg said, shrugging, “But if you were a renegade angel with the chance to hop into one of you two, would you give that chance up? Think globally, not locally, Losechester. You’re all about the now. Sam needs healed _now_. An angel appeared now who can help _now_. You never thought past that point. And now you see it, don’t you?” She hopped down, circling him like a hawk, “He’s getting demanding, pushy. He thinks he’s in charge, and his hand is much better than yours. You tell Sam he’s in there; maybe Sam is strong enough to kick him out, maybe not. He kicked Lucifer out, but he was all roided out on Demonic Ovaltine and in prime physical condition. Even then, Lucifer almost beat your brains in before he did it. Now? He’s being held together with fucking scotch tape, and you’re the one who put an angel in his body; it was your grand manipulation that put him in this situation. Sam did that to you, would you really want to beat it? You didn’t even want to leave Purgatory really, which you blamed him for, and he didn’t even do that to you.”  
“He never looked,” Dean snapped, “Not the same thing.”

Meg ignored him.

“And even if he does kick him out, then what? Sam dies. And all of it was for nothing,” She stood in front of him, placing her hands on either side of the chair and leaning close to his face, “Face it, Dean. He’s got you by the short and curlies with a Royal Flush, and you’re sitting on Three of a Kind at best.”  
“So what do you suggest, bitch,” he growled, “You’re real good at talking shop, but I haven’t heard a single solution.”  
“That’s your biggest problem, Dean,” she said, “Well, other than your crippling bouts of alcoholism and your trigger happy attitude. You always want someone to think for you, to tell you what to do. Not surprising, seeing what you come up with when you let that hamster running in its wheel upstairs really get a-goin.”  
“Fine, I’m not a great thinker, I can admit that, but at least I did something,” Dean snapped, “I did what I had to.”  
“Exactly,” she said, snapping her fingers again, “You did what you had to, for _you_. You can’t live without Sam- or at least you’ve convinced yourself you can’t, even though you did a marvelous job when he was in the cage getting tortured. You did it for _you_.”  
“Of course, that’d be how your sick mind would twist it,” he snarled, “I saved my brother’s life.”  
“Why?” she asked, “He didn’t ask you to. He was ready to die. He has no idea how he didn’t die. He specifically continued the ritual, knowing he was going to “get dead”, as you so eloquently put it. He all but said, _‘I’m ready and willing to die now, Dean’_. And you ignored his conscious, willful decision, because it wasn’t in line with what _you_ wanted. That’s not a hard thing to misinterpret, and it’s not twisting what it is to say it just like that.”  
“ You still haven’t given me a solution.”  
“Because I don’t have one,” she replied simply, pulling away, “If it were me, I would’ve never gotten into this situation. You gave him all the cards, Dean, and you kept none for yourself. You don’t even know if he’s who he says he is. I mean, in all actuality, as far as you know you could’ve just invited the devil right back into his body.”

Dean’s face paled at her remark, but she shook her head. So predictable- his buttons were so easy to push. She resisted the urge to laugh at him.

“It’s not Lucifer, cool your heels kid,” she said, “If it was, I would’ve been dead the moment he walked in. Lucifer doesn’t hesitate. He sees a threat, he eliminates it.”  
“Maybe he’s playing against his character.”  
“Well, other than the fact that Lucifer couldn’t even play against his character to keep himself from being cast from Heaven,” she said, “I know Lucifer’s grace the way I know my own soul.”  
“You don’t have a soul,” Dean sneered. Meg laughed.  
“Baby, I’m nothing but soul,” she replied, “A little dingy, a little cut up, but still. It’s not his grace. It’s not him. I would know.”  
“I forgot,” Dean said, “You were Lucifer’s little right hand whore in Carthage. Guess slime recognizes slime.”  
“Something like that,” she said with a smirk, “The only solution I see is for you to play along, and figure something out.”  
“That’s your big advice?” Dean snapped, “Play along and see how it turns out?”  
“Sometimes inaction is the only course of action, Deanie. You learn a lot more by watching than you do by talking.”  
“And what the fuck am I supposed to learn, huh?”  
“A weakness. A vulnerability. Find something you can use against him. Get yourself an insurance policy. Everyone needs one when the stakes are this high.”  
“And you think you have one?” Dean asked. 

Meg nodded, laughing. 'Think' she had one- she _knew_ she had one. Of course, he wouldn't understand it, but it was all she needed.   
  
“I always cover my six, Dean. That’s how I’ve lived as long as I have. I don’t have plan A and B. I have plans A thru Z. That’s called strategy, a quality your father had a disgusting abundance of, and clearly it’s a quality he did not pass on to you.”  
“You don’t know shit about my father.”  
“I know more about your father than you could ever imagine,” she snapped at him, “Your daddy was a mystery to you two, and no one else. He may be a piece of shit who deserves every abhorrent and unimaginable torture inflicted on his immortal soul, but if nothing else, he was fucking smart.”  
“This conversation was useless,” Dean snorted, waving her off as he stood up and turned around, “I don’t know why I bothered.”  
“Because you’re a liar too,” she said, “And you just can’t lie to a liar.”  
“Exactly,” Dean said, pausing at the doorway, “Which is why I don’t believe a word that comes out of your mouth.”

He flicked the lights off, hearing her call out just as he closed the door:  
“That’s your mistake.”


	8. Chapter 8

Kevin always considered himself…awkward. Painfully awkward. He was never exactly good with people- not because he didn’t want to be, god, did he want to be…but because sometimes he just didn’t know how to connect. It was mostly a problem with kids his own age; he got along well with teachers, adults, his classmate’s parents…but actually connecting with kids his own age was... hell seemed like a stupid sort of comparison now that he’d been up close and personal with the king of hell, but yeah, it was hell. Being a teenager was rough, even without all the prophet bullshit.

Then, there was Channing.

Channing didn’t care about the fact that he had no idea how to talk to people, or that he was more concerned with maintaining his perfect GPA rather than going to football games or school dances. In fact, she was just as driven and uninterested in anything but school as he was. Not that there was anything wrong with football games and school dances. In fact, since all this bullshit started…he kinda wished he had gone to those things, and maybe taken her with him. Maybe things would’ve been different.

He knew she was the girl for him when he saw her at the 8th grade talent show, playing “The Elements Song” with nimble fingers, looking like she was having the time of her life. And when she didn’t laugh at him when the first thing he ever said to her was, “You misspelled Deoxyribonucleic Acid in your slide show.” And when the second thing he said to her was, “I just really hate when things are misspelled.”  
She did, however, laugh when he said, “I am really bad at talking to people because I never know what to say and I just stare at them and don’t say anything and people think I’m creepy but right now I really wish I would shut up and I can’t.”

They were fast friends.

She was into biology and geology, he preferred chemistry and engineering. She was a pianist; he was a cellist in the school orchestra. She was witty and snarky and always had something to say, especially when Kevin just needed someone to make him feel better. He was quiet and understanding when she just wanted to vent about how hard it was to be a girl, an AP girl, whatever it was that was pushing her buttons. She pushed him to raise his hand, to participate, to let the world know he was there. And he taught her how to let things go, how to listen, how to be okay with just going with the flow. They had a million things to talk about all the time, and he even was able to forget, just for a little bit, about the strict, down-to-the-minute schedule he usually clung to when he was with her.  
They were the Advanced Placement dynamic duo- they did everything together. Projects, homework, test prep, practicing their orchestra pieces- From 8th grade on, there wasn’t a day that went by that they didn’t talk, and barely two in which they didn’t see each other. Linda liked Channing- she said she was good for him, that she would help him pursue his goals rather than distract him from them; that she would show him how to be confident and assertive.

She was his first kiss- 10th grade, just before study hall. She leaned in and kissed him on the lips instead of their usual parting hug. He turned the color of ketchup and she raised her eyebrow and laughed at him.

 _“Come on, Kevin. It’s just a kiss. Haven’t you ever been kissed before?”_  
_“No…”_  
_“Oh. Well, now you have been.”_  
_“Why?”_  
_“What do you mean, why? We’re dating, aren’t we?”_  
_“We…we are?”_  
_“Yeah, Kev. We are.”_

Channing was always so self-assured, so confident. She knew she was smart, and unlike him, she wasn’t bothered by it. She wore it like a badge- proudly, showing it off to anyone who happened by. She wasn’t scared of saying the wrong thing or giving the wrong answer. She wasn’t scared of Kevin saying no to them dating, to her kissing him. She just seemed to know that she was the best thing on earth, and it seemed like the idea of him telling her ‘no’ hadn’t even crossed her mind. He always wished he could be that confident. She was lively and loud and knew what she wanted and how to get it. She had a future. She was going places, places Kevin hoped she’d let him go with her.

And then, fucking Crowley stole her.

He couldn’t understand why after all the things that asshole had done, to him and Sam and Dean and Meg and Castiel, they let him live. How could they let that sick, twisted freak live? They could’ve killed him. They should’ve killed him. That was justice- but he was beginning to realize more and more that Sam and Dean weren’t about justice, weren’t about the past, unless it was theirs and justice was for them- they seemed to only focus on the immediate moment if it wasn’t about them.  
Crowley wasn’t a real threat to them right then and there, so they let him go, and it made Kevin’s flesh crawl to know that they had a chance to get rid of him and they didn’t.  
How many people that they cared about had he hurt? How many lives did he destroy?  
But he was still alive.  
And someone like Channing, who never hurt anyone, who only wanted to live her life, wasn’t.  
It made him sick.

Kevin never thought of himself as a vengeful person. Sure, plenty of assholes got their kicks from making him feel bad about himself, but he was always able to let that stuff roll off his shoulders. But Crowley… he killed Channing. He stole his mother. He cut off his damn finger, tortured him. He wanted to see the pound of flesh from him. He wanted him dead.

He was starting to understand why Dean and Sam just killed anything that crossed their paths, no questions asked. If enough demons fucked up his life any more than they already did, maybe he’d kill them all without a second thought too. Could he really judge them for that?  
But, the more he thought about that, the more it bothered him. He could, would kill Crowley without a second thought, and he was totally okay with that. Crowley deserved it. But just anyone? Could he really kill someone without caring? Could he kill a person to kill the demon inside them?

He knew that Dean and Sam were good people. They did what they thought they had to in order to protect each other and other people, he rationalized. But was that really a good enough excuse? What about the way they treated each other and people they apparently cared about?

He watched, he listened. That was something about him that used to frustrate him to no end- no one noticed him, no one noticed when he was watching and listening, and it made him feel invisible. But living with Sam and Dean, he realized that it was a sort of gift, being able to blend in, to go unnoticed. He saw a lot more than he knew people would want him to, heard a lot more than people intended for him to hear. He learned a lot more about the Winchesters just by watching them than he ever did from a conversation with them.

Dean never had a nice thing to say, not really. And even when he did, there was usually a ‘but’, an addendum, something that soured the moment. He knew that guys like Dean didn’t know how to give a compliment, or how to be encouraging, not really. He had gotten a few ideas about their Dad from both of them, and Sam seemed to be right- if their Dad was a slave driver who never really had a decent thing to say, then he was right on the mark. And if that was how it was, he figured Dean didn’t know any better. But it still bothered him, how Dean treated him, treated everyone- even Sam, even though Kevin understood why. He treated people like tools, like stepping stones to what he wanted. Kevin didn’t really feel like a person when he was dealing with Dean most of the time- he felt like Dean’s tool to translate the tablets, the stepping stone bringing him closer to his master goal. And even though he liked Dean in a lot ways, he was aware that despite being a generally good person, he was just really…myopic.  
Dean always reminded him of a phrase that his mother endlessly said to him when he was upset about something someone had said, or something someone did that didn’t make sense to him.  
_“Kevin, when you’re a hammer, everything looks like a nail.”_

For a long time, he thought that she meant something like the people who treated him poorly, who did stupid things, didn’t know any better. But he realized that this was her way of explaining a very common phenomenon when they were talking to a friend of hers and he noticed a small scar on her shoulder.  
_“I could take care of that for you in just a few minutes.”_  
After they left, his mother laughed to herself in the car, shaking her head.  
_“Hammer, nail.”_  
_“What?” Kevin asked, looking at her curiously. She looked back over at him, her smile broadening._  
_“He saw my scar,” she explained, “Kevin, you need to understand that people are all biased by their backgrounds and tend to put forward solutions that their backgrounds suggest to them. He’s a cosmetic surgeon, and a scar to him is something he can fix. He thinks the scar is a problem, a nail. And his hammer could fix it; and he didn’t even consider that I’m not particularly bothered by it. He’s like that because his life, his career, his experiences have shaped his perception to tell him that a scar is a problem, and a problem he could fix. That’s what I mean when I say that to you, Kevin. You are a soft, quiet person in a loud world. Many people’s experiences and backgrounds tell them that this is a problem, and they think they can fix it by making you feel badly. Don’t be someone’s nail, Kevin- but just as importantly, don’t be a hammer.”_

Dean saw every problem in black and white, with tunnel vision. He depended on his experiences, his knowledge, his “hammers” to give him solutions. He didn’t consider any way but his way, and he considered every way but his way to be wrong. Sure, if he was met with enough resistance, he’d listen for a few seconds, but otherwise, it was his way or the highway.

Like getting him to translate the tablet- his first reaction was to motivate Kevin with things that’d motivate him. Ride him hard, constantly make him feel like he wasn’t good enough, treat him like his value lay in his ability to perform; and when he pushed too hard, act like that was never his intention, make Kevin feel like he was overreacting.

_Hammer, nail._

Or his solution with Meg.  
She was a demon, and he seemed to think any solution to the problem that she apparently was other than killing her and burning her body was absolutely inconceivable.

_Hammer, nail._

He just went around, forcing his way of thinking on every problem, making everyone conform to his standards, his way of thinking.  
Because when you’re a hammer, everything is a nail. Even people, and in Dean’s case, _especially_ people.

Sam, in his opinion, wasn’t much better. Sam didn’t treat people like crap, not really, but he just didn’t have a backbone when it came to Dean. If Dean was a hammer, Sam was a nail. He let people beat him down and never fought back. Sure, the big stuff, most of the time he’d stand up to him. But the rest of the time? The little things? He just went along with whatever Dean wanted, like a robot. It seemed like a lot of the time, he just checked out and went on autopilot. He allowed people, especially Dean, to walk all over him, and he walked all over other people because that’s what he was told to do, taught to do. He’d heard Meg call Dean the good little soldier, but from what he could see- at least when they weren’t out hunting- was that Sam was the good little soldier. Dean told him to eat, he ate. Dean told him to sleep, he slept. Dean told him to research, he researched. Dean treated Sam like a nail- a problem he had to fix, a problem he had to keep track of. He hammered Sam down- told him he was wrong, discounted him, made him think that he was a hindrance and a problem, and Sam just let him. He couldn’t understand how someone as strong, as smart as Sam allowed someone to control him. But looking back on his experiences with Dean, he realized that he did the same thing, until recently.

Kevin didn’t have to be in advanced placement to see through the way they worked, the way they treated each other. He didn’t need Meg to tell him, to remind him, but she did. She saw through it too.

Meg was loud, rough. But Kevin could see inside her, see that there was a soft, quiet person inside. Loud, rough people didn’t see and hear the things she did. Not the ones who were really that way. She wore her caustic nature like armor, the same way Channing did, except to a lesser degree. Kevin liked to think that Meg knew what it was like to be a nail and a hammer, and that’s why she did and said the things she did. He knew she was smart, and she was wise. She didn’t say things to him just to stir the pot- maybe she did with Sam and Dean, but not with him.

He felt like most of the time, she was trying to teach him. She never hesitated to answer his questions, to explain things he didn’t understand (even if she did tend to insult him a little). She didn’t push him away or treat him like she had better things to do than talk to him. It wasn’t like she really did have anything else to do, but she still could’ve treated him that way, and she didn’t. If he didn’t know any better, he might’ve thought that Meg might’ve had some sort of respect for him, maybe even a fondness. Not as much as she had for Sam- as weird as that whole thing was- but still.  
(And that whole thing was really, really weird.)

He wasn’t naive, he knew she was a scary, powerful demon who could kill an angel without breaking a sweat, but she was a person to Kevin, first and foremost. He knew Dean and Sam said she’d done bad shit to them, to other people, but he figured they did too. He still looked at them as people. Why not her? Because she wasn’t human? They treated Cas pretty good, and from what he heard, Cas did some screwed up stuff too. Why was Dean out chasing him down, but he treated Meg like dirt, less than dirt? It bugged him.

_Hammer, nail._

Well, he decided he wasn’t just gonna sit there and stare at the stupid tablet the whole time they were gone. He heard what Sam said- he woke up when they started raising their voices- sound travelled through the upper floor of the bunker like it was a cave.

 _“But you’ve been more than happy to let her kill when it helps us, whether she likes it or not! I’m letting her out. I don’t care.”_  
_“Oh no, no. She stays down there until we carry out her dead body or she’s human.”_

He agreed with Sam. He didn’t like the idea that they were keeping someone who had helped them so much locked up like an animal in a cage, even if she was a demon. He wasn’t okay with leaving her down there, sneaking around because he was scared of making Dean angry. Maybe if he just took the leap, Sam would back him up when they got back. If she was out until they came back and nothing went wrong, could Dean really lock her up again? What excuse would he have?

Kevin fought the fear in his body, the desire to run as he laid his hand on the handle of the door separating him from her. He was terrified.  
He took a deep breath, focusing on the rational. Look at it as an equation. Risk-benefit ratio.

 _What was the risk?_  
Dean could kick his ass, leave him to fend of himself, lock him up. Sam could let him, or join in. Meg could attack him. Meg could try to escape.  
_What was the empirical evidence of the risk?_  
Dean didn’t like not being listened to- he’d seen abundant evidence of that. He didn’t like not having control, so when someone disobeyed him, he immediately exerted as much control over them as possible. Sam had backed down when Dean refused to let him let her out, who was to say he wouldn’t just back down again?  
But then, he had to consider her as the risk. Why would she attack him? He helped her. She had so many opportunities to hurt him, and she hadn’t yet. She promised she wouldn’t, in her own way. And she had a good point- if she did try to escape, Dean and Sam would just hunt her down again, along with every other demon that she pissed off by helping them.

Yeah, he didn’t know what Dean would do, or if Sam would back him up. But the benefits, in his mind, outweighed the risk. Simple math and logic. He could always fall back on math and logic.

_Hammer, nail._

He turned the knob, opening the door slowly. He was afraid still, no amount of logic could change that, but he straightened his back, steeling himself. He made his decision, and Dean Winchester wasn’t God. He wasn’t going to change his mind just to suit him.

“Meg?” he called out, “You in here?”  
“Nah, I’m gone fishing, come back later,” came her sarcastic reply from the dark. He smiled a little, comforted by her snark. If there was one thing that never changed, it was Meg’s incessant snark.

_Hammer, nail._

He never really understood why they always left her in the dark- every time they left, they turned the lights off and left her there to stew in the darkness, like they wanted her to know how little they thought of her, how much they viewed her as less than them. Like they wouldn’t even waste the free electricity on her. It rubbed him the wrong way- beyond his feelings surrounding the demon, it was inhumane and degrading. If it was Crowley, he’d get it. But Meg? He didn’t get the reasoning behind it, and he didn’t understand how they thought Cas would be okay with it- from what he gathered, Cas and Meg were kinda a thing. If he was Cas, he’d be pretty pissed.  
He flicked on the lights, seeing her squint up at him with a small smile.  
“Hey there, Advanced Placement,” she said, “What’s Rocky and Bullwinkle up to now?”  
“They’re looking for Cas,” Kevin said, “I’m not really sure where they went…”  
“They’re looking for Castiel?”

Kevin was taken aback by the expression on her face- it was the strangest mixture of concern, sadness, and anger. He’d seen the softer side of Meg when she was with Cas; her patience with him, the gentle fondness she regarded him with, the fierce protectiveness of him. He remembered a conversation between them when Dean and Sam were asleep, when he was supposed to be, in that cabin in the middle of the woods.

 _“I’ve done terrible things.”_  
_“We both have, Clarence. That’s the nature of the beast of war.”_  
_“But I’ve done terrible things to you. I used your body as a bridge to cross holy fire, I encouraged you to risk your life, I threatened you…”_  
_He opened his eyes to slits; just enough to see the tender, almost motherly look on her face as she pressed her finger to his lips, hushing him._  
_“Where necessity speaks, it demands, Castiel,” she said softly, stroking his hair, “You did what necessity demanded. The past can’t be helped. This is why you’ve gone starkers. You’re trying to comprehend and reconcile something that no one can, something that is utterly pointless and futile to try to. All creatures do what they have to in order to survive. For you, that happened to be using this fine body as a doormat. Anyways, I’m no worse for wear. I’m stronger than you give me credit for- which really fucking irritates me.”_  
_“But it’s not right. What I did wasn’t right…so many things I’ve done aren’t right.”_  
_“You’re right about that. You did stupid, insane, fucked up shit that made no goddamn sense. But none of that matters.”_  
_“It doesn’t?”_  
_“No, Clarence. It doesn’t.”_  
_“You forgive me?”_  
_“I’m not the one who needs to forgive you.”_  
_“Dean? Sam?”_  
_“No, Castiel. You need to forgive yourself. Until you forgive yourself and understand why you did what you did, you’re just going to repeat that pattern, those same mistakes, those same wrongs. Doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result is sheer insanity. Stop going to your default. Forgive yourself and break out of the cycle.”_  
_She tapped her fingers gently against his temple._  
_“This is what makes you different than all the other harp strummers. It’s the same thing that makes me different from all the other parasites.”_  
_“Our…heads?”_  
_“Jesus Christ- no, your mind. It’s all in your noodle- it’s a good one, I can tell. You just gotta find it in there, honeybee.”_  
_Kevin slid his eyes closed as Castiel cuddled into her arms, his face pressed against her neck, her fingers carding through his wild hair, holding him like a child._

A demon, comforting an angel. That was his first lesson in the world of the supernatural- nothing is what it seems, and when you think you have all the answers, you’re wrong. That was another thing that bugged him about Dean and Sam, they seemed to think they had this stuff all figured out, even when they were consistently proven wrong. They weren’t adaptable, and maybe that was the core of their whole problem. Dean couldn’t adapt to the changes in how demons, angels, even monsters worked. And Sam couldn’t get his head out of Dean’s ass long enough to even attempt it himself.  
But Kevin? He was adaptable. And so was Meg, if her long lifespan around Dean, Sam and Cas was any indication. People around them seemed to drop like flies.

“Are you okay?” he asked hesitantly. She nodded quickly, flashing him her usual smirk.  
“Peachy keen, kiddo,” she replied, “So, Fred and Velma are off trying to rescue danger-prone Daphne, and it’s just you and me.”  
“Yeah.”  
“And they’ll be gone for who knows how long?”  
“Yeah…” Kevin replied, “I guess. They never really tell me much about that stuff…”  
“Sweet,” she replied, clapping her hands together, “Wanna let me outta here?”

Kevin held her gaze evenly, debating on how he wanted to answer that request.  
“I’m not supposed to,” he said simply. She threw her head back, letting out a loud bark of a laugh.  
“That was almost convincing,” she said, “Kevin Tran, learning to lie. Ain’t that something. Come on, I was born at night, but not last night, Dumplin. You’ve been thinking about it, I can tell. Why even come down here if the thought hadn’t crossed your mind?”  
“I like talking to you.”  
“It’s not torture for me either,” she said with a small smile, “Why not? I can protect you, make you something other than hot dogs and ramen, and to be honest, a month down here has been absolute torture. I don’t like small spaces.”  
“You don’t?” he asked curiously.  
“Would you if you were kept locked up in motel bathrooms getting tortured by the Fatman?” she asked, “I’m a demon, but we still have feelings. I mean, they’re really dull and barely responsive to just about anything, but they’re there.”  
“If I let you out, you have to promise not to try to leave,” Kevin said, “I don’t mind letting you out, but I’m not getting my ass kicked for you.”

She smirked at him, standing up. He resisted the urge to jump back, his teeth gritted and his lips pressed in a tight line.

“Captain Self-preservation, oh my,” she chuckled, moving to the edge of the Devil’s trap, “I’m not going anywhere, kiddo. I wouldn’t leave you here with the dipshit twins. I’m evil, but not that evil.”  
“I don’t think you’re evil,” Kevin replied. She laughed, reaching out and patting his cheek.  
“You’re sweet,” she said, “Too sweet for your own good.”  
“I’m not sweet.”  
“Yes you are,” Meg replied, “When are you blockheads gonna start realizing I don’t just say shit for my health? If I say you’re sweet, you’re sweet. Suck it up, Buttercup, and while you’re at it, move back so I can break this damn thing.”  
“Wait,” Kevin said, “You’re telling me that you’ve stayed down here and you could’ve gotten out…the entire fucking time?”

She looked down at a spot on the floor intensely, her lips moving and her brow furrowed in concentration. Kevin watched as a thin, spidery crack sprang into existence with a loud popping noise, surging out across the floor, breaking the Devil’s trap and stopping at the tip of his shoe. She looked up at him with a smirk, tossing her hair back.  
“Yeppers peppers, dumplin,” she replied, crossing it with a flourish, “Ta-fuckin-da.”

“What the hell?” Kevin exploded, “No, seriously. That wasn’t a rhetorical question! What the freaking shit is this?”  
Meg looked down at the crack in the floor and back up at him, her eyebrow raised.  
“What? It’s a crack in the floor, Einstein.”  
“How?!?!” he demanded. She shrugged.  
“Screws fall out, floors crack, the world is an imperfect place, kid.”  
“Why?” Kevin yelled, “Why in God’s name would you stay down here, locked up in the fucking dark for weeks, when you could’ve gotten out?” Meg threw her head back, laughing hysterically. Kevin had no idea what to make of it, staring at her slack jawed.  
“Damn, I needed a good laugh,” she said, patting his shoulder, “Oh boy, I am so glad that you’re the one who let me out.”  
“Can you at least….answer the question?” he asked, turning to follow her. She paused at the door, turning around with her hands on her hips.  
“What question?”  
“Wha- are you kidding?” he demanded, “If you’ve been able to get out the whole entire time, then why didn’t you?”

Meg snorted, shaking her head.  
_Bless all the pretty, empty headed little lost boys that live in this stupid cave._  
She lifted her hand, ticking off her reasons.  
“One, like I said- I leave a 5 mile radius of Winchesters, I die. Two, I need to make sure those two morons didn’t make things worse, and the best way to do that is to pretend that _oh no, I’m so totally trapped, I can’t go anywhere, I’m completely at the mercy of the great white hunters_! And three, why the fuck not? I haven’t got anything better to do than sit in the dark. I mean, yeah, it blew dirty ass, but compared to my other options? I’d rather chew salt and gargle with holy water than be around the denim wrapped ball of alcoholism and Daddy issues that is Dean Fucking Winchester any more than absolutely necessary.”  
She turned back around, heading down the hallway, “Are you coming or what? I’m freaking starved, I want a bath, and these clothes reek so bad even I can’t stand to be around myself.”

Kevin made it out the door, staring at her back as she walked down the hall like she owned the place, having no idea how to process what she said and what just happened. She paused, turning around and walking back over to him, resting her hands on his shoulders.

“Kevin.”  
“Uh, yeah?” he mumbled. She gave him a wide smile.  
“Can you not have a heart attack right now?” she said, “I know you’re probably freaking the hell out and I can’t really blame you but I am way too dirty and hungry and cranky to be the princess I usually am about your precious fragile little human psyche,” she moved behind him, pushing him forward, “So, get a tissue for your issues, put one foot in front of the other and move your ass somewhere that I don’t have to worry about you dying while I take care of some basic ass necessities for you and luxuries for me.”

* * *

She looked over her shoulder at Kevin, smirking at his brilliant red face. He was such a child, and in way over his head- and the funniest part to her was that he was completely aware, and trying his damndest to make sure she didn’t know he knew. She bent down, sticking her hand under the hot stream of water, sitting on the edge of the tub.

“Please tell me that you’ve seen a naked chick- and I mean in real life- before,” she said teasingly, throwing a glance over her shoulder, “Because if not, this is gonna be even more awkward than it already is.”  
“That’s none of your business!” Kevin burst out in an angry tone, his face turning redder, if at all possible. She would’ve felt bad if he hadn’t been the one to insist he had his eyes on her at all times- she wasn’t modest, and goddamn it, she wanted a damn bath. She pulled off her boots and socks, looking at him pointedly as she did so.

“If this is a game of chicken, you’re gonna swerve first, honey,” she said, “I’m perfectly okay with you watching me strip and hop in the bath, but you’re clearly about to burst into a pile of embarrassment and blood here.”  
“I’m fine,” he squeaked as she pulled off her belt, tossing it on the floor and shrugging her jacket off. She laughed, rolling her eyes.  
“Yeah, and I’m the queen of Sheba,” she replied. Kevin looked over curiously.  
“Are you?”  
“What- oh, yeah. Forgot that to you guys that’s actually a possibility. No, I’m not the Queen of Sheba,” she snorted, pulling her shirt over her head. Kevin’s eyes widened to the size of saucers before staring very pointedly at the ground.  
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she muttered, “Kevin, seriously. If you wanna go do something till I get in and all my tasty bits are submerged, that’s fine, I’m not going anywhere. Well, other than into the damn tub. Besides, I’m gonna need some clothes. And some towels. So maybe you could do that instead?”  
“I have to make sure you stay in the bunker.”  
“Okay, let me amend what I previously said,” she said, pulling his chin up so he was staring in her eyes, “Go find me some clothes and towels, and I will get in the tub, and then I won’t make you wish you’d never let me out. How’s that?”  
“You promised you wouldn’t hurt me,” Kevin replied. She smirked, sliding her other hand through his hair gently.  
“Dumplin, I don’t have to hurt you in order to make you regret ever letting me out,” she replied, “Come on. I haven’t bailed yet and I have been thinking about this bath for literally a year and a half. I am not gonna run naked into the night if you leave me alone for five minutes without having a freaking bath first, and I promise, not even I can take a bath that fast.”  
“You promise?”  
“On my honor as a demon,” she replied sarcastically. Kevin glared at her, making her sigh as she released his chin.  
“I promise, Kevin, I’m not going anywhere but into the bath, cross not-my heart,” she said seriously, drawing an x over her chest, “You have five seconds before I take off my pants. Your choice.”

He gave her a long look until she unbuttoned her jeans, turning and dashing out the door, closing it with a loud slam behind him. She chuckled, peeling off the rest of her clothes and turning off the bath spigot. She closed her eyes as she stepped into the hot water and bubbles, sinking down into the water with a sigh of contentment.

“This,” she groaned to herself, “Is better than good.”  
She slid down under the water, the dull white noise beneath the water lulling her into a sense of peace she hadn’t felt in a long time. She ran her fingers through the floating, tangled tresses that had fanned out in the opulent space the tub provided, letting all the blood and sweat and tears of the last few weeks melt off her skin.

Ever since she was a little girl, she wished that she could breathe underwater like a fish, so she would never have to leave the water- she adored water of all kinds. Baths, pools, lakes, rivers, the rain, even the ocean- she adored the feeling of water against her skin, dripping over her lips, surrounding her. When she was a girl, she imagined that every touch of water was the touch of the great Mother, the only mother she had ever known, the Lady Astarte’s hands cradling her, touching her face, sustaining her. As she grew older, it was the feeling of being clean and fresh scrubbed, a feeling of rejuvenation and renewal, her stores replenished. Even as a demon, the few times she had been in turmoil, the feeling of water comforted her. Maybe that was one of her favorite things about being a demon- she didn’t need to breathe. She could lay submerged in that warm water for hours, her childhood dream come to fruition.  
If only it didn’t come with such a high price.

She finally emerged, her wet hair plastered against her head and bare shoulders, steam curling around her like smoke. He rested her head back against the lip of the tub, staring up at the high ceiling of the bath, humming to herself as she lazily soaped her arms and washed herself. She sat up, pulling her hair over one shoulder as she washed her back, her eyes sliding closed.

_She could feel his angular, strong body against her bare, wet back, his fingers sliding through waving, ebony tresses. She could feel rough, calloused hands sliding over the swell of her belly, the brush of beard against her shoulder, lips pressed against her warm skin._

_Izevel, ahuvi…_

“ _Mḣib_ ,” she mumbled, sitting bolt upright as she realized she wasn’t alone. She looked over to see Kevin with his arms full, his head cocked to the side curiously, watching her. She gave him a half-hearted scowl, settling back into the tub.  
“Didn’t your mother teach you to knock?” she snapped at him. He looked down guiltily.  
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, “But, I, ah, heard you humming and then you said something and I couldn’t help it.”

She let her scowl fall away, shaking her head. That was the trouble with him, with a few people she knew- they simply cared too much, and couldn’t stop themselves from caring.

“Care kills a cat, _Yalad_ ,” she said softly. He sat down on the floor, wrapping his arms around his knees.  
“What does that mean?” he asked, “ _Yalad_? And _mhib_? Is it Phoenician?”

She smiled to herself, sitting up a little. She didn’t mind sharing these little tidbits with Kevin- he wasn’t looking to pry, to get some sort of confession out of her. He was just curious, and she could respect that.

“Yes, both are,” she replied, soaping her hair, “ _Yalad_ means child. _Mhib_ means lover.”  
“Were you married?” he asked, resting his chin on his knees. She smiled a little, nodding.  
“Yes, I was.”  
“Were you thinking about him?” he asked, “Is that why you said that?”

She churned her hands through the water, nodding.  
“Yes,” she replied, “We bathed together sometimes. He didn’t like it much, so it was a treat when he did.”  
“Were you close?” he asked, scooting forward a little, “You and your husband, I mean. Did you love him?”  
“Why do you ask?”  
“Well, it’s just…when I learned history, it seemed like most marriages were all about things other than love in ancient times. And…y’know.”  
“Are you calling me old?” she asked with an amused smile, making him laugh.  
“Well, you are!” he exclaimed, “It’s not an insult!”  
It was her turn to laugh, shaking her head.  
“At first it wasn’t about love. But I did come to love him. He was very charming when he was getting his way- and I became very good at ensuring that he did.”

For some reason, talking to Kevin about Ahav, about being human, didn’t bother her as much as talking to Sam about the same subject did. She didn’t feel like Kevin was psychoanalyzing her, or looking for something to exploit.

“He sounds like a little kid,” Kevin remarked.  
“He was, in many ways. Men never really grow up, Dumplin. They just get taller,” she replied.  
“Did you guys have any kids?”

She bit her lip, not answering as she sank beneath the water, rinsing her hair and trying to decide how she wanted to answer that. She resurfaced, brushing the water from her face.  
“Yes,” she said simply, “Three. One was what you would refer to as a stepdaughter, and two sons.”

Kevin looked up at her apologetically, seeing the sadness in her eyes that he still wasn’t accustomed to. He didn’t mean to upset her- he just wanted to know more about her.  
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. She shook her head, braiding her hair- a habit that she had never seemed to break when she bathed.  
“Don’t be,” she said firmly, “You just asked a simple question. If I was angry, I wouldn’t have answered. That’s the thing about me. I’ll let you know when I’m offended.”  
“Really?”  
“Really really,” she replied, “I’m not a human, sweetheart. I don’t play games. At least, not when I’m in a situation like this.”  
“Games?”  
“Well, you all call it manners, or whatever. If I don’t like something, I say it. If I don’t want to answer a question, I don’t. I don’t care how it makes you feel. I won’t play those games with you. And I expect you to give me that same respect.”  
“For real?”  
“The realest,” she replied in the most obnoxious valley-girl impression she could summon, “Totally.”  
“You are so…weird,” Kevin said with a snort.  
“You have no idea, Dumplin,” she said with a wide grin, resting her chin on her arms on the edge of the tub, “Now, what did you scrounge together for me to wear? I don’t think that innocent little mind could handle me strutting my jollies all over the place.”  
“Yeah, something like that,” he said, rolling his eyes, “I didn’t know if you’d fit them, but I grabbed a pair of my sweatpants and a shirt of Sam’s.”  
“Why a shirt of Sam’s?”  
“Because I didn’t think your…ah…well, your chest would…really…fit in one of my shirts.”

She let out a loud howl of a laugh, reaching out and pinching his blushing cheek.  
“You are probably the most disgustingly adorable thing on the face of the planet,” she laughed, “Like, in that ‘ _I just want to kinda smash you_ ’ sort of way.”  
“Uh…thanks?” he said hesitantly.  
“You’re welcome. Now, am-scray, Dumplin. If you can’t even talk about boobs, I’m pretty sure you’d die if you saw some.”

Kevin retreated, leaving her to snatch a towel and climb out of the warm water with a soft groan, letting the tub drain. She toweled her body off as quickly and efficiently as possible, before inspecting the clothing choices that Kevin had brought her.  
Well, better than nothing, she supposed.  
She managed to wiggle into the sweatpants, looking in the still half-fogged mirror with a scowl.

“Damn….is my ass seriously that big?” she muttered, “Or is he seriously just that scrawny?” She shrugged it off, rolling her eyes and lifting the giant sack that apparently was Sam’s shirt, laughing to herself. She pulled it over her head, still laughing at the fact that she basically was drowning in the damn thing. Hell, if she had a belt, she could wear it as a dress, no sweats needed.

She couldn’t help herself.

She lifted the fabric to her nose, inhaling the smell of cheap laundry soap and Sam, the smell that never seemed to wash out of clothes that someone wore regularly; a smell that made her think of him, his face, and the tender care he had showed her last time. Like he was sorry that he upset her, that he hurt her. Like he wanted to take care of her, protect her. She didn’t need that, she was a big girl who had been taking care of herself for a very long time, but still…it was nice. In fact , she kinda hated how nice it was.

She swiped her hand over the mirror, staring at her reflection with a glare. Wearing his shirt.  
“You’re getting weak,” she hissed softly at her reflection, “Everything else was one thing, but now you’re wearing his clothes? Smelling them? You’re a pathetic moron.”

Her hand slid over the brilliantly bruised, mottled flesh of her throat; hissing slightly. The angel did a number on her- she was going to have to keep an eye out for that one. She wasn’t particularly worried about him killing her, but if he kept playing rough, Sam was bound to notice. And that was a whole can of worms that would be pretty hard to close again without someone getting in deep shit.

She opened the door to see Kevin sitting outside, twirling around and posing for him.  
“Alright, Mr. DeMille, I’m ready for my close-up,” she said in an airy tone, making Kevin laugh until she realized his eyes were fixed on her neck. She could see the concern and horror in his eyes as he rushed over, looking at it closely.  
“Meg, what the hell happened?” he demanded.  
“Oh, don’t be such a baby,” she said quickly, batting him away, “It’s a bruise, for Christ’s sake.”  
“Yeah, your whole neck is a bruise!” Kevin exclaimed, “How did that happen?”  
“Well, Dumplin,” she began, “When a Mommy and a Daddy love each other very much, sometimes they do this thing called ‘erotic asphyxiation’.”  
“Don’t hand me that crap,” Kevin said sharply, folding his arms over his chest, “You said you wouldn’t play games with me, and that’s exactly what you’re doing. If you aren’t going to keep that promise, how can I trust you?”

Meg stared at the indignant 19 year old, not sure of how to respond. Normally, she’d tell him to go fuck himself, or that she was, _duh_ , a demon, and demons lie. But for some reason, she couldn’t summon the usual snark that she had in spades to that remark. The truth was, she did want Kevin to trust her, because damn it, the kid needed someone he could trust…and so did she.

“Fine,” she replied, folding her arms, “You’re right. I don’t want to talk about it. It’s done, it’ll heal, and I’m no worse for wear. Satisfied?”  
Kevin stared her down, shaking his head.  
“Not really,” he replied, “Was it Sam?”  
“Are you seriously asking that question?” she snapped. He raised an eyebrow.  
“So it was Dean,” he said, huffing as she shrugged non-commitally, “There isn’t anyone else here!”  
“Sure,” she replied, brushing past him, “Think what you want. I said I didn’t want to talk about it- I don’t owe you anything more than that.”  
“He could’ve killed you!”  
“No, they couldn’t,” she snapped, whirling around, “I’m a demon, Kevin. Only things that’ll kill me is an angel blade or one of those demon blades. Or the Colt, which seems to have conveniently disappeared. Strangling me, beating the ever loving hell out of me, shit, even setting me on fucking fire, that doesn’t kill me. It just hurts a lot.”  
“It’s not right,” he muttered lowly, “That’s torture.”  
“So what?” she demanded, “That’s how it’s done, kid. You’re in the world of hunters now, and if you wanna make it, you need to accept a few things. One of them is that I’m not a human. I’m not a _person_. I’m a _thing_ , and things don’t get ‘tortured’, they get roughed up so they do the jobs they’re intended to do. I’m not saying what did this, but you need to get well acquainted with the idea that your morals and ethics don’t apply anymore, no matter how much you want them to.”  
“Why not?” he demanded, “Why don’t they apply? It’s not right! What gives anyone the right to do that?”  
“That’s the way it is. Let it go, Kevin,” she said sharply, walking out the door. Kevin wasn’t going to let it go, though. He was tired of the what. He wanted to know the why. It was fucked up, the way they did things, and it was even more fucked up that Meg just seemed…ambivalent about it.

“No!” he yelled, following her down the hall, “I want to know why!”  
“Yeah, and how’s it feel to want and not get?” she shouted back as she continued, her pace not slowing. He ran in front of her, blocking her way.  
“Why?”  
“What the hell do you mean, why?” she demanded.  
“Why is it okay to torture people, huh?”  
“How many times do you have to be told this,” she said, her voice rising in pitch, “I’m not a person! I’m a demon, Kevin. I’m a big, bad, scary thing that has killed hundreds of thousands of people, and not once did I feel a shred of guilt. I killed them because I liked it.”  
She watched the blood drain from his face as he shook his head.  
“I don’t believe that,” he said in a soft, shaky voice, “I don’t believe that.”  
“I possessed Sam and I murdered hunters in his body. I tortured their friend. I sent hellhounds after them, I kidnapped their daddy and murdered his friends. I am not a _person_ , Kevin Tran. I am a _demon_. You’ve seen my charitable side, a side that seems to have appeared out of fucking nowhere, but you need to get this through your head- Dean maybe a fucking asshole simpleton, but he has a point. I’m dangerous. I could kill you without ever laying a finger on you. I could literally crush your heart inside your chest with a flick of my wrist. If I really wanted, if I put enough effort into it, I could probably bring at least a quarter of this fucking place crashing down on both our heads.”  
“You said you wouldn’t hurt me.”  
“And demons lie!” she yelled in his face.  
“Then do it!” he yelled right back, “You keep saying you’re a demon, and that makes you not a person, so do it!”  
“Are you fucking retarded?” she demanded, her eyes flicking black.  
“No, I’m not! You promised you wouldn’t hurt me. So yeah, I’ll tell you to do it, because I trust that you won’t! That might make me retarded to you, but I said that I would trust you and that’s what I’m doing. Demons might lie, but I don’t! Get that through _your_ head!”

They were at a standstill- Kevin’s face red and his chest heaving, any sort of fear that had been in him a minute before gone. That was the one thing he held onto through this whole mess- when he made a promise, he kept it, even if it was a stupid one, even if it could get him killed, because it was the right thing to do. He stared back at her, right in the eye, not flinching, not breaking away. He wanted her to know how serious he was. He could see her anger ebb and wane, her shoulders sinking, the black that had engulfed her eyes slowly receding to where it belonged- back to her pupil. His breathing began to calm, almost back to normal when she finally broke the silence that hung heavy over them.

“Boy, you are just full of piss and vinegar, aren’t you?” she said, her tone returning to the light, teasing way she usually spoke to him. He let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, a smile of relief spreading across his face.  
“I guess I am,” he replied. She patted his shoulder, starting back down the hall.  
“We can continue this in the kitchen,” she said, waving for him to follow, “So we can be full of piss and vinegar and maybe some food. I’m so hungry, I could eat a whale.”

* * *

They sat in silence as they ate; Meg being too busy enjoying her meal and Kevin not wanting to damper the moment for her. He knew that demons didn’t actually need to eat, just like they didn’t need to sleep, but from the look on Meg’s face, eating was at the very least enjoyable for them. He watched as she drained the last of her beer, leaning back in her chair and looking satisfied.

“Now that,” she said, flashing him a grin, “Was great.”  
“It was just a sandwich,” he said skeptically. She laughed at him.  
“Yeah, and the Mona Lisa is just a painting, the pyramids are just some rocks, and the ocean is just a bunch of water,” she replied, “Everything is ‘just’ something. It’s what it makes you feel that makes it more than that.”  
“So…a sandwich made you feel like the Mona Lisa makes people feel?” he asked, smirking.  
“No, smartass,” she replied with a smirk of her own, “But it did taste great, and it made me feel awesome. So yeah, that sandwich was the cat’s rockin ass pajamas.”  
“You really are a terrifying creature of the night.”  
“Blow it out your ass, Dumplin,” she snorted, “So you apparently bring out the best in me. I have two options- I kill you now so that I can regain my title as the evilest bitch to grace these hallowed halls, or you shut your face anus and stop reminding me that I’m apparently going senile in my advancing age.”  
“Why do you have such a problem with being good?” he asked.  
“I don’t have a problem with being good. You being good? Totally cool with me. I have a problem with people pretending to be something they’re not. At the moment, yeah, I ain’t half bad, gag me with a sharp object. But that doesn’t change that I have not only been bad, but one of the baddest that ever was, for a millennia or two,” she said, “Listen, you wanna pin goodness on me, fine. But you’re gonna have to pin it on me as I remind you how evil I’ve been.”  
“I guess that’s fair enough,” Kevin replied.  
“First I’m good, now I’m fair,” she said dramatically, throwing her hands in the air, “How far the great have fallen!”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry to my few loyal readers (hello i love you i am shy when talking to people sorry) that this is a week late. I try to have this updated once a month (because of the chapter length- I try to give ya a lot of bang for your metaphorical buck), but this chapter is a bit longer than usual, so I think that extra week miiiight have been worth it. Or not. I don't know, I can't judge my own writing.  
> Thank you for the comments and kudos, I'm sorry for not ever replying but I never know what to say other than "thank you i am crying you are so nice". So thank you, I am crying, you are so nice.

They’d been at this for two days, searching for Cas, going from one homeless shelter to the next. It was unsettling, seeing the homeless in force, seeing how many families there were without homes, how many young people there were. When they were kids, it didn’t seem like there were so many whole families on the streets- sure, there were some like them, one parent who just didn’t have enough to make ends meet this month- but there were families with mothers and fathers, kids under the age of five. Their father always had to be dead desperate to take them to any sort of shelter, and when he was that desperate, that’s when things were the worst. Sam had long ago come to terms with that part of his life, but being here, in the thick of it, he was starting to feel less and less like the 32 year old man that he was and more like the 7 year old he was the last time they’d stayed in a place like this. After the first two shelters, Sam finally had to pull Dean aside. He wasn’t sure he could take much more of this, and judging by the look on Dean’s face, he wasn’t gonna be able to take much more either.

“I don’t think Cas would be running with this crowd,” he said in a low tone, bending close for Dean to hear him over the cacophony. Dean gave him a look, his brow furrowed.  
“Yeah, what makes you say that?” he asked, barely dodging out of the path of a father dragging a small child into the line for lunch, another wailing on his hip. A weird look came over his face, just staring after them until Sam nudged his arm. Dean nearly jumped out of his skin, looking over at him and repeating, “What makes you say that?”  
“Look around,” he said, “Most of the people here are families, couples. He’d stick out like a sore thumb and whatever can be said about Cas, he can sense when he looks different. He probably tried to find a men’s shelter…Dean?”

Dean was already staring off in the opposite direction again, at the father and the kids that had shoved past them. He hadn’t meant to get so caught up in such a little thing, but he couldn’t help but remember so many times as a kid being in places just like this, his own father looking that haggard and fighting for a place in line so they could get something to eat when the money ran out and he hadn’t started his next scheme. His eyes met the little boy’s eyes for an instant, the little boy waving at him hesitantly before his arm was jerked, making him turn around.  
“Don’t wave to strangers,” his father grunted, bouncing the baby on his hip desperately, “God, Emily, will you stop with the screaming? I’m trying, I hear you!”  
The little boy reached into his pocket, pulling out a binky and holding it out to his father, who snatched it and shoved it in the baby’s mouth quickly to silence her.  
“You had that this whole time and you didn’t say anything?” the father demanded exasperatedly, “Jesus Christ, Tucker, think a little! She’s been screaming for the last 15 minutes.”  
He saw the way the little boy flinched at his father’s irritation, seeming to shrink even smaller than his already tiny form. How many times he’d felt that same way…

“Dean, seriously.”  
“Hmm?” he said, looking back at Sam as if he’d never stopped looking at him, “Yeah, you’re right. Let’s get out of here.”  
“You okay?” Sam asked, grabbing his arm as he started out, “You just zoned out twice.”  
“I’m fine,” he said quickly, rubbing his mouth, “Just, ah, weird. Y’know. Being in places like this.”  
Sam looked over at the family again, frowning and nodding. Dean never really talked about when they were kids unless he absolutely had to- Sam always figured it was his way of dealing with the dysfunction that was their childhood- but he was looking their childhood right in the face, and it was hard for both of them.

Dean couldn’t stand it- there were too many people, too much noise, and he felt like he was getting tunnel vision. Everything was squeezing around him and he could feel sweat beading on the back of his neck, rolling down and soaking into his collar. He met the little boy’s eyes once more- but instead of brown eyes staring back at him, he saw his own.  
He needed some air- right fucking now.

Dean started for the exit, his head down and muttering apologies as he shouldered his way past the people, making a beeline for the door quicker than Sam could keep up.  
“Dean, wait!”

He was already out the door, swallowing deep lung-fulls of air and slapping his knees as if he’d just run a marathon. He hadn’t felt that feeling in years; not since the first few months after he’d gotten out of Hell- like he was suffocating, like the walls were closing in and no matter what he did, he had to get away. He tried desperately to slow the pounding of his heart, willing the world to stop spinning.  
_Now is not the time to be acting like a little bitch_ , he admonished himself, straightening up just as Sam burst through the doors, his head swinging around.  
“Dean, are you okay?” he asked, rushing over but getting stopped by Dean’s palm flat in the middle of his chest, holding him at arm’s length.  
“Yeah, just give me some space, man,” he grunted, “I don’t need you hovering.”  
“Okay,” Sam replied, backing up, “Okay. Sorry.”  
“It’s fine,” Dean said quickly, dropping his arm, “Let’s just…go check out that men’s homeless shelter and get it over with. I always said I never wanted to step foot in another homeless shelter if I could help it and I was on a 16 year streak until now.”

Sam gave Dean a curious look, not saying anything in response to that. Sure, Sam got it- they both had some weird aversions that stemmed from childhood. Sam couldn’t stand spaghetti, any kind, but especially spaghetti-o’s or canned raviolis- just the smell would trigger his gag reflex. He ate it so much as a kid that now he couldn’t even stand decent spaghetti; and he made a point of just avoiding all things with tomato-based sauces. Or just anything that came in a can or a jar. He knew why he hated spaghetti, but he couldn’t for the life of him figure out why Dean had such a thing about homeless shelters, and he was pretty pissed with himself that it had taken him this long to notice.

“Yeah, okay,” Sam said, deciding not to push the subject any further- Dean still looked a bit green around the gills, and he didn’t want to make things any worse. Dean had already made it halfway to the car before turning around and whistling at him loudly.  
“Let’s go before I ralph all over the place!” he yelled, turning back around and continuing, not waiting for Sam to follow.

* * *

  
Meg leaned over Kevin’s shoulder, looking down at the tablet with curiosity. She was bored- too bored, bored enough to actually be helpful. She was irritated beyond belief to discover that there were exactly zero televisions in this cave, and she wasn’t tech savvy enough for any device that required more than pressing a button to turn it on and pressing a button to change a channel. Kevin had tried showing her something called “Netflix” on his stupid laptop, but after one (admittedly amusing) movie about three people getting sown ass to mouth, she was bored again. So, she decided it was time to pester her favorite little prophet.

“Huh,” she said, looking down, “And here, I thought it’d be in petroglyphs I could read- I figured you dunderheads were just underestimating me as usual.”  
“Well, apparently not,” Kevin sighed, resting his forehead against the wood table, “If that was the case, then it’d be a whole lot easier.”  
“Yeah, but where’s the fun in that?” she teased gently, sitting on the table next to him. He groaned, bouncing his head off the tabletop gently, and she reached out and patted his head awkwardly.  
“It’s gonna be okay, big guy,” she said, “Hey, why don’t you ditch the rock and do something else?”  
“Like what?”  
“I don’t know, what the hell is there to do in this fucking cave?” she asked, “I’m completely over Netflix.” He shrugged, picking his nails, a habit he realized that he had to break. His fingers couldn’t take much more of his teeth and nails- they were already more scab than skin. They were starting to look like Dean’s hands, which honestly grossed him out. He’d have to find a less disgusting habit- maybe smoking, or alcoholism, he thought to himself bitterly.  
“Dunno,” he replied, “I’ve never really looked around much, seeing as I’m always stuck here.”

She ogled at him, her jaw dropping. Bunkers were just about the most amusing places on Earth- filled to the busting with all sorts of nasty and fun things just begging to be messed with, and he hadn’t even snooped? He needed to drop the rock and have some damn fun, and she intended to prod him into it.

“Seriously?” she asked, “You know that these little puppies are basically like, the Hilton mixed with unsolved mysteries of the paranormal. I was in one in Tel Aviv, and it was so freaking sweet-“  
“There are more bunkers?” he asked, looking interested. She nodded, swinging her legs idly.  
“Uh..chyeah? You think that the Men of Letters only existed in America? I mean, technically yeah, like by that name, but come on, dude,” she replied, picking up half his sandwich and munching on it, “And anyways, having places that are basically the safest place in the world to hide from evil isn’t a new thing. I mean, what the fuck do you think Stonehenge was for?”  
Kevin looked at her with a skeptical look on his face, one eyebrow raised.  
“Stonehenge is…a bunker?”  
“Oh my god, please never say anything that stupid ever again or you can put me back in the dungeon,” she replied, brushing her hands on her pants, “Peanut butter and jelly is gross. Anyways, it was a sacred place. Hunting was abundant, healing herbs grew there, they commenced burial rituals and sacred rites there. It was considered by the Druids to be a place untouched by evil. Evil couldn’t enter there. Like…Christ, I can’t name all the places. People have always believed in places of ancient evil, and they also believed in places where evil could not enter. There’s nothing particularly special about these places in a physical sense, but hey. The idea is what’s important. I don’t think you humans understand the power of belief.”  
“Like, if enough people believe something, it’s true?” Kevin asked, leaning forward as she shrugged.  
“Kinda. Think of it like…uh, mass psychokinesis. If enough humans focus a belief on a place or a thing or a process, it comes true- that’s the basic idea. I mean, why do you think saying a prayer over water makes it holy water? It’s still water. It’s not a spell. It’s not like God or an Angel shows up and gives the shit its mojo.”  
“But it burns you. It has to have changed…”  
“Yeah. It’s not the prayer that changes it. It’s the belief in the prayer, the power of that mass belief. Belief can change a lot of things,” She paused, “Hell, belief can even kill, possess.”  
“But Sam and Dean don’t believe in the prayer- a lot of people don’t, not anymore,” Kevin mused, “So it has to be less effective now, with all the skepticism.”  
“They don’t need to,” she replied, “Billions of people, dead and alive, do. That’s where it gets its power. It’s basic physics. Energy cannot be created or destroyed, only changed, and energy is what changes things most of the time, and specifically in this case. That’s why there are ghosts and demons. The human soul can’t be destroyed because it’s energy. It just changes. Humans like to think that God and demons and the supernatural can’t coexist with science, when honestly a lot of the supernatural can be explained by science. You just haven’t made the advances necessary, biologically and as a society, to comprehend it. That’s why everyone considers people who have made the connection total kooks. You as a whole don’t have the cognitive ability to comprehend such things. So, you either call it miracles or call people insane. Always been that way- you think Da Vinci was actually considered a genius? No. Most of the time, everyone thought of him as a total nutbag that no one wanted to actually piss off because he played with dead bodies. Back to my point- energy cannot be created, nor can it be destroyed, and energy is what gives all the supernatural mumbo jumbo it’s juice. Humans assume that this means that the mind cannot create the energy that could create psychokinetic events, but that whole idea depends on your idea that God doesn’t exist in the mind.”  
“What?”  
“God created you in his image, didn’t he?” Meg said, “That means God gave you the ability to create- you created tools, society, laws, and really terrible teen movies about bored white kids who smoke too much pot. God or the big bang or a higher power or whatever you wanna call it- it created the first energy. Everyone agrees that no matter what you think did it, it was done, and you all are naïve or arrogant enough to think you know that it’s never happened since and can never happen again.”  
“Okay, so you’re saying that the basis of all physics is wrong?”  
“Not necessarily. I’m saying that part of it is definitely wrong. Somewhere along the way, you missed a piece. You know that myth that you only use ten percent of your brain? Well, that’s not true. Your brain isn’t always firing at 100%, but in a day, yeah, you use 100% of it. But humans only know for sure what 10% of what makes up the brain actually does. It’s neurons that control your brain, and neurons only make 10% of your brain, and that’s the only part of what makes the brain that you guys truly understand. The rest are things called glial cells. They encapsulate and insulate the neurons, supply oxygen and nutrients, destroy pathogens and get rid of dead neurons.”  
“Basic brain science. We know what they do, so you’re wrong. ”  
“No- most people don’t realize that these cells also help neurons make synaptic connections to each other, and do a whole shitton of other things. They can transmit messages; make sure connections are clear, all that jazz. And, unlike what scientists have long thought, glial cells have the ability to perform mitosis. You think you know, but the truth is that just a few short years ago you also thought that you knew that women’s uteruses just traveled all over their bodies willy-nilly and that the sun revolved around the earth.”  
“That’s a good point.”  
“Now, imagine evolution of the brain. How did humans evolve to higher functions of thought? More neurons were created and activated and connected to one another, with the power of the glial cells. This is something humans know has occurred, but up until recently, they didn’t believe could happen.”  
“What does that have to do with God?”  
“Well, God created you in his image. That means you look and function like God if you strip that meaning down to the bare bones, right?”  
“Yeah…”  
“So, think about it. There are so many mysteries of the human mind, of the universe. What makes you think that the brain-which is what makes you function, what makes you breathe and move and think, which holds your very consciousness and soul- could not produce energy? What makes you think that you completely understand energy? How do you know that energy isn’t simply locked away in the higher parts of the mind that you haven’t consciously tapped yet, like the Neolithic men hadn’t accessed reasoning? God made you in his image, which means that if you accessed those higher parts, you could do what God does.”  
“And that’s your big explanation for telekinesis?” he said, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms across his chest, “I find that hard to believe.”  
“You’ve been around the Wonder Twins too long, boyo,” she replied, mirroring his position.  
“What makes you say that?”  
“Hunters are knowers. Dean, he’s a knower. He “knows” things, and he doesn’t look past what he “knows”. For some reason, humans are the type of creatures that always need proof. You want things you can hold and see to prove that something is real, you want facts, because facts leave no room for possibility, for chaos. And you look and you look and you look for all this evidence, but as soon as you find it, you have no idea what to do with it, because you’re afraid of what it means. It means you’re not in control anymore, you’re not at the top of the food chain, and humans hate being second best. So you decide that all that evidence isn’t fact, and you continue the hunt.”  
“You hate being out of control just as much as we do,” Kevin replied, “You always have to be in control.”  
“Me? Oh no honey, I’m never in control, that’s my control. Chaos. Control is an illusion, chaos is a fact. The only way to have control is to reject it and embrace the chaos.”  
“Embrace the chaos?”  
“Yup. There is some wisdom in that cliché ‘live like it’s your last day’. That doesn’t mean make fucking stupid decisions that’ll bite you in the ass should you live to see another day, that’s just idiotic. Tomorrow is always a day away, Dumplin. Treating your todays like bank chips to cash in tomorrow is wasting your life. You’re alive now, and,” she gestured around, “Nothing goes with you to the next level. Back to my point- stop going through life trying to make everything you see line up with your narrative. Open up your mind. You need to stop being a knower and start being a thinker, kid.”

Kevin picked at his nails, thinking about what she’d said. There was some wisdom in it- he’d spent his whole life doing things in anticipation of some bigger picture tomorrow, and that hadn’t worked out. He was miserable, he was alone, and all his plans just went down the drain.

“So, how do I do that?” He asked, looking up at her with red rimmed eyes, “How do I embrace the chaos?”

She gave him a wide grin, jumping down from her perch and grabbing his wrist.

“You’re gonna learn today, kid,” she said with a loud laugh, dragging him out of the library.

* * *

 

“So, have we figured out how we’re gonna tell Cas?” Sam asked anxiously as they drove to their next lead to find Castiel. It was a subject that had been weighing on Sam pretty heavily since they went off to find him; how to tell him that Meg was alive and with them. Part of him wondered if the angel missed her, if he was worried about her. It kinda seemed out of his character to do either of those things; but for some reason, Meg always had this ability to make people act out of character. Hell, it seemed like the only person who hadn’t been turned topsy-turvy in some way by the demon was Dean.

Dean didn’t respond, staring straight ahead blankly.  
“Dean,” Sam said loudly, making Dean jerk a little. He was caught up a little too deeply in what Meg had said to him shortly before they left. He didn’t want to admit it, but the bitch had a point- Ezekiel was getting a little too comfortable calling the shots and throwing his weight around for comfort. When it came right down to it, he’d been banking on the decency of an angel, and he knew better than that. Angels always have their own agenda, divine or otherwise. He’d been so desperate to save Sam that he charged in blindly and now he was getting fucked- and not in the fun way. Everything was weighing on him like a two ton anvil strapped to his back, and the worst of it was that some part of him knew that it was his fault. He could feel

“Huh, what?” he asked, looking over at Sam, “I think he knows the angels fell, no need to rub salt into that wound.”  
“What? No, I didn’t mean the angels,” Sam said, “I meant Meg.”  
“What would it matter if we did?” Dean replied, shrugging irritably, “Didn’t even think to mention it.”  
“Are you serious right now?” Sam demanded, his eyebrows shooting up, “Dude, we can’t just not tell him.”  
“Why the hell not?” Dean snapped, “Look, whatever you’re up to with her, fine. I obviously can’t fucking stop you and as long as you’re not nailing her or drinking her blood I’m just gonna count it as a win. But I don’t see what the fucking point would be in telling Cas shit about her. We need him focused on what we’ve got going on, not focused on getting his dick wet.”  
“He cares about her.”  
“Really?” Dean asked, giving him an incredulous look, “Cas cares about her? Okay, one- he’s an angel, she’s a demon. I get that you’re into the whole romance novel, star crossed lovers bullshit but when you get right down to it, Cas is too busy-fuck, I don’t know how to put this- being Cas to really care about much of anything, let alone some demon broad. And two? I think he’s got bigger problems than his love life, man. Like the fact that all of the angels fell out of the sky like the damn Challenger.”  
“I think we should let him decide how to deal with it,” Sam snapped back at him, “I get it, you hate her, you’ve made that clear. But just because you hate her doesn’t mean that everyone else does. It doesn’t mean Cas does.”  
“Okay, fine. Say he does care about her,” Dean said, “How do you know she wasn’t just using him, huh? How do you know he wasn’t just a pawn to her?”  
“Jesus,” Sam said, leaning back and rubbing his face, “Is it really that hard for you to imagine either of them having any sort of feelings?”  
“Beside the fact that she’s a fucking demon, since when have feelings really mattered, huh Sam?” Dean snapped, “Did anyone care how I felt about Lisa? Nope. Did anyone care about how you felt about the line of failed romances you’ve had? Nope. Not one bit.”  
“Fuck you,” Sam spat, giving him a venomous look, “You can be a real prick sometimes, Dean.”  
“Yup, that’s me,” Dean muttered, “Always the fucking bad guy.”  
“Listen to yourself, for Christ’s sake!” Sam said, staring at him, “No one cared about you and Lisa? So, what, now you have to take away anyone else’s choice? Someone else’s chance at something good?”  
“You make me sound like I’m twirling my mustache and laughing evilly as I destroy their precious romance or some shit. Look, we don’t know what was going on between them, and besides that- what the fuck does it actually matter? Now is not the time for this fucking pansy bullshit of ‘oh, but their feeelings’,” he simpered, grimacing, “We do our job. That job is finding Cas, finding out what the fuck is happening, and fixing shit before the whole world gets broke. That doesn’t involve stopping along the way for a lover’s reunion. You can either get with that program, or I can take you back right now and fucking do this myself.”  
“So that’s it?” Sam asked quietly, “It’s just your way or the highway, huh?”  
“Don’t,” Dean growled through gritted teeth, “Don’t…don’t fucking do that. Don’t fucking act like I’m being some sort of bully. You know I’m right about this. The world comes first, always has, always will. If it came before us and our happiness, it comes before Cas, and it definitely comes before her.”

Dean couldn’t hide the bitterness in his voice- yup, the world always comes first. Doesn’t matter if he finally has a slice of that American pie, or if he’s exhausted and just wants to fucking rest- the world comes first. When he said it out loud instead of as a mantra on endless loop in his head, for the first time in a long time, he felt robbed. Like that stupid mantra was a monster that ate his hopes, his dreams; a monster that he could never kill. He wanted to be a fireman when he was a kid- what happened to that? He couldn’t even remember when he just gave up on that. He wanted to be a husband. A father. He wanted to be an average joe, as much as he acted like he despised the idea. And the five whole minutes he had that, he didn’t know how to do it. That was exactly how he felt- robbed. Robbed of a chance to be happy, and robbed of the fucking capability to even enjoy it if he got it.  
This life was a fucking filthy thief. The whole world was a thief. Why should he go out of his way for an angel who, in all fucking reality, helped rob him blind? Or a demon, who robbed every sad sack who came within five feet of her? What made them so deserving of his energy to preserve what everyone had stolen from him? It was bullshit, and if he was gonna suffer, well they could fucking suffer too. Their hands were just as dirty as his. They could wallow in the muck with him- misery loves company.

“It’s not our job to make them happy,” Dean said with finality, “It’s our job to clean up their fucking mess- angels and demons both. We didn’t do it this time, and fuck if I know why we’re the fucking zoo keepers of heaven and hell, but that’s just how it is. I honestly don’t give two flaming shits what Cas feels- he didn’t give a shit for a long fucking time about anything but his precious little plans. Well, it’s time for my plan, and he will stow his shit and do what needs doing.”  
“And if he doesn’t?” Sam asked, “What then, Dean?”  
“I’ll burn that bridge when I get to it,” Dean hissed, “I’ve had enough of this bullshit. I’ve had enough of pussyfooting around to spare everyone else. When it comes right down to it Sam, it’s all pretty black and white as far as I see. Do or do not, win or lose, yes or no. I’m not playing in shades of gray any more. We have a plan, we stick to the plan, we finish the plan. We have a job. Nothing else matters but the job.”  
“You sound just like him,” Sam said quietly, picking at his jeans. Dean gave him a venomous look, white knuckling the steering wheel.  
“What, like Dad?” he sneered, “Well, whatever you have to say about him now, you have to admit- he got shit done.”  
“No,” Sam replied, “Not Dad. You sound like Cas did when we first met him.”  
“You wanna run that by me again?” Dean demanded.  
“You basically quoted him!” Sam shot back, “You sound like a fucking angel! You said it yourself- the problem with Cas used to be that he didn’t care about anything as long as he did what ‘the plan’ said to do. Look, you don’t want to tell him about Meg? Fine, I’m not going to argue with you about her because I might as well be slamming my face off a brick wall- in fact, that’d probably get me further. But this ‘all-go-no-quit-big-balls’ routine? It’s not going to get us anywhere. If there’s any being in this entire fucking universe as stubborn and fucking pig-headed as you, it’s Cas. You know bossing him around like a grunt is the quickest way to get him to go in the opposite direction of what you want. Find a middle ground!”  
“Do you have shit in your ears or are you just stupid?” Dean yelled, looking over at him, “Seriously! I wanna know- I told you, I’m not playing that game anymore, because every time I give an inch, he takes a mile- they all take a fucking mile, and I’m stuck trying to play catch-up. I’ve had it up to fucking here with this shit! I’m fucking tired, Sam. I’m 35 goddamn years old and I feel like I’m 90. Every day I get up and I just keep on going, keep on fighting and I’m fucking sick of it being for jack shit. I tried the middle ground. I tried being the yes-man. I did their song and dance and I’m done. I’m done with their shit, I’m done with Cas’s shit, I’m so fucking done with the bitch’s shit, and you know what? I’m done with your shit too.”  
“My shit?” Sam yelled back, “What is my shit? What, questioning you and your plan is me giving you shit? You’re tired of supposedly being the yes-man so now I’m supposed to be? Don’t you think I’m tired too?”

Dean took a deep breath, his shoulders sagging.

“I just want to get this done without any distractions we can avoid,” he said firmly, “And that’s a distraction we can avoid. I know you’re tired, and that’s why I want this to be done. The less speed bumps, the better, right?”  
“But this isn’t a speed bump,” Sam replied, “Wouldn’t you want to know if Lisa was alive after being in a dangerous situation?”  
“Don’t,” Dean snarled, “Don’t talk about her.”  
“What, you can make as many snotty remarks about the women I loved that died, but I can’t talk about the one woman you loved who’s alive?”  
“Because Sam, you and your little flings have almost ended the world!” Dean yelled, “And it’s not just that, it’s anything you get stuck in that Sammy brain of yours. You don’t know how to compartmentalize. Every time, you get these ideas stuck in your head and you let them interfere with everything, and I know Cas- he’s just like you with that. He gets an idea rattling around in there and he can’t get shit done right until it’s out of there! Say whatever you want, but you know that’s a fact. The bitch is only going to get him all riled up.”  
“She has a name,” Sam snapped angrily.  
“See, this is what I’m talking about,” Dean snapped back, “You’ve got it in your head that she’s something she’s not, and you won’t get your shit together and realize that no matter what you think, no matter what you do, you can’t change what she is- a demon. Useful for the moment and at other times? Yeah. But still a demon.”  
“Demons were humans once.”  
“Yeah. Once upon a time, in a galaxy far, far away. But they aren’t anymore, and nothing you say or do can change that, short of purifying the bitch. We don’t tell Cas, not until we’re back at the Bunker. Maybe not even then.”

Sam could see the tell-tale twitch down the whole left side of Dean’s face that told him he was fighting yet another losing battle. He worried about that twitch; sometimes it was so noticeable that he worried his brother was having a fucking stroke or something. It was a new thing, one of the many new things he’d noticed about his brother since that night in the church. He was always jumpy and on edge more than usual. He always had to be doing something, like, physically doing something- he’d taken up pacing around the bunker, up and down the halls on an endless loop sometimes. He cleaned almost compulsively; it felt like every time he turned around, Dean was scrubbing at something- whether it be the floor or the dishes or his own hands- to the point that his hands were so dry and cracked that his knuckles were lined with small, bloody scabs. He couldn’t even sit still; always bouncing his knee or tapping his fingers and fidgeting. He lost weight, he was barely eating, barely sleeping…and now, the twitch.

“What’s going on with you?” Sam asked.  
“What are you talking about?” Dean sighed exasperatedly, “What, me not liking the bitch makes you think something’s wrong?”  
“No, not that,” Sam replied, “I mean…” he gestured to Dean, “All…this. You’ve been acting different since the Church.”  
“Different how?” Dean asked, his voice jumping an octave. Sam sat back in his seat, completely flabbergasted. He hadn’t heard Dean’s voice do that since…since he killed Amy, come to think of it.  
“What are you hiding from me?” Sam demanded, “Come on man, I’m your brother. I know what you act like when you’re trying to hide something big from me.”  
“Give me a break,” Dean snorted, “What could I have done that you wouldn’t know about? You’ve been with me almost non-stop since that night. I’m just on edge about the whole angels thing. Which is why I just want to do this without distracting or spooking Cas. We need him and he’s not really known for his reliability in high pressure situations, you know? Remember the whole Godstiel thing?”  
“That’s true,” Sam conceded, “I just don’t like seeing you like this. I feel like you’re about to explode or something.”  
“Don’t worry, I’m cool as a cucumber,” Dean said, leaning forward and glancing up at the building, “Looks like this is it.”  
And that’s the end of this conversation, Sam thought to himself. He wasn’t really angry about it, he knew how Dean was- if he got a papercut, he’d holler and yell like he’d been stabbed in the gut. But if he got stabbed in the gut, it’d just piss him off into silence until he died of internal bleeding.

“So…what’s the plan here, exactly?” Sam asked.  
“The usual,” Dean replied, putting the Impala in park, “Kick open the door, do a decent amount of property damage, stab all things worth stabbing and retrieve the angel with minimal damage to our persons.”  
“And when has that ever actually worked out?” Sam asked with a small smile. Dean gave him a grin, sliding out of the car and patting himself to make sure he had everything.  
“It’s a Wednesday,” Dean said, “Those are my lucky days.”  
“No, they really aren’t.”

* * *

 

“I can’t do this,” Kevin moaned, covering his face. What the hell was he thinking, letting her out of the dungeon? If he knew this was where it was gonna lead….no, he still would’ve done it. Why shouldn’t he do this? Wouldn’t this be what he would be doing in college?  
“It’s alcohol, not the blood of a child,” she snorted, sniffing it, “Very old and fancy alcohol, I’ll be the first to admit, but nevertheless, it’s still just alcohol.”  
“It smells horrible,” Kevin said, jerking away as he sniffed the open bottle. She laughed, shaking her head.  
“That’s because you’re a kid. Most kids would drink gasoline if they thought it would get them drunk and not kill them,” she said, “Come on, just drink it. Pretend its cough syrup or something. It gets easier after the first like….three shots.”  
Kevin looked down at the line of shot glasses she had made, each filled with the amber liquid like he was staring down a monster. She slapped his shoulder, grinning.  
“Come on, it’ll put hair on your chest! Make you a big boy!” she laughed. He gave her a dubious look, rolling his eyes.  
“Maybe I don’t want hair on my chest.”  
“I’m not talkin like, Sean Connery level animal pelt glued to your chest. We’re talking more like Robert Plant’s Hairway to Heaven. Chicks dig that.”  
“How do you know what “chicks” like?” Kevin demanded, “When you were alive, you didn’t even shave your armpits or legs!”  
“Yeah, because men back then knew that body hair was natural,” she snapped, “Look, body hair politics and what chicks dig aside,” she paused, putting her hands on his shoulders, “You really, really need to lose some of the stress, Dumplin. That little ticker of yours is gonna give out if you don’t slow your fucking roll for like, 2.5.”  
“And how the hell is getting drunk supposed to help me embrace the chaos?” he demanded. She rolled her eyes, picking up one of the shots and throwing it back.  
“You’ve never been drunk,” she said, picking up another shot and downing it, “You don’t know what it feels like, but you’ve seen other people drunk. They seem out of control to you and being out of control is scary. Baby steps, my precious little one. You gotta learn to walk before you run.”

Kevin looked down at the shots, his jaw set in a tight line. She was right- drunk people seemed completely out of control to him, and alcohol seemed like it did nothing but cause trouble for anyone who drank it- and it scared him. She was right. Drunk may have been a form of control for people like Dean, but it was a mild form of chaos to him.

“Here’s to chaos,” he muttered, squeezing his eyes shut and tossing back a shot.

It tasted horrible. It was on the top ten list of the worst things he’d ever tasted, before his own vomit and after his mother’s green smoothies with wheat germ for a “brain boost” before his state testing. He gasped and gagged, managing to keep the burning liquid down for no other reason than he was pretty sure it was gonna hurt like hell coming back up. She cheered loudly, drinking directly from the bottle with a long swallow, clearing out what seemed like a third of it in a few seconds.

“Let’s get you white girl wasted, kid,” she said with a grin, holding out another shot to him. He took it, throwing it back quickly and gagging again, but slightly less.

“So, getting drunk is you teaching me to embrace chaos?” he asked. She shook her head, sitting down on the table again.  
“Nah, this is phase one,” she replied, “You get your first taste of chaos being drunk. That should give you the boost you need for phase two,” she held out the next shot, “Drink.”  
He took it, throwing it back with relative ease.  
“Hey, you’re right,” he said, “It does get easier after the first few.” He reached for the next one, Meg’s hand stopping him.  
“Hang on a second, Dumplin,” she said, “We’re not drinking Winchester style. I’m not trying to get you obliterated in the shortest time possible. Pace yourself or you’re gonna be puking your guts out.”  
“Hey, you said embrace the chaos,” he replied with a giggle, “Pacing does not seem like embracing.”  
“Yeah, but you’ve got a virgin liver,” she replied, “Embracing the chaos does not mean making stupid decisions at night that are gonna hurt you tomorrow.”

Kevin flopped down in the chair that he’d been previously studying the tablet in, slouching.  
“Then how come you let Dean and Sam use you as bait?” he asked, “Like, that doesn’t seem very…not stupid.”

She laughed, drinking more out of the bottle, feeling the effects of the alcohol spreading through her vessel. She could already feel the pleasant light-headedness, the relaxation turning her constantly clenching jaw lax.  
You should stop drinking, she heard in the back of her head, You know that drinking relaxes you too much.

“Do as I say, not as I do,” she replied, “Learn from my mistakes.”  
“I can tell you were a mom,” he said with a dopey smirk, picking up another shot and drinking it, “You sound like my mom.”

She stiffened at that remark, guzzling down more of the burning liquid to dull the sharp reminder of her past. She was frustrated that it seemed to be coming up more and more, not only in conversation but in her mind as well. She could see that Kevin was feeling anxious, having noticed her reaction. She slid another shot across the table to him, gesturing her head for him to take it.

“I wasn’t a very good mother,” she replied. Kevin’s brow furrowed as he leaned forward, giving her a weird look.

“Did you love your kids?” he asked.

She was blown away by his question. No one had ever asked her that question in her entire existence- Ahav, Ishah, Lucifer, even the men who murdered her and her children, none of them ever asked if she loved her children. None of them seemed to really care if she loved them or not, just that they existed and that she wanted them. Of course she loved them, she loved them more than anything- true enough, she loved them more than even Lucifer. They were her flesh and blood, her creations, her babies, her entire world. They were what she sold herself for.

“More than words could ever describe,” she said, “My children were everything to me. But loving your children doesn’t make you a good parent, _Yalad_.”

Kevin sat quietly for a moment, seemingly pondering her response heavily. She actually found her wanting to know what he thought, such a weird, stupid thing for her to want, but she couldn’t help it.

“I think that’s a really strict definition,” he said, his head drooping back over the back of the chair, “I bet you were a really good mom.”

She stared at him, weirdly touched by his decision about her mothering, which he knew exactly nothing about. She was flattered, and even though it felt good having someone, for the first time in her existence, compliment her as a mother; she didn’t like how it made her feel. Like maybe she was decent. Feeling like that always led to trouble.  
“Okay, lush,” she teased, finishing off the bottle and setting it down, “You ready to hear about phase two?”

Kevin sat up, a sour look on his face. He was just starting to enjoy this whole being drunk thing- he didn’t really know what to compare it to, but he figured if this was what alcohol did to you, then he couldn’t really blame Dean for drinking it like water. He shrugged, his sour grapes giving way to eagerness. This had worked out awesome, so Phase Two would probably be great.

“Okie dokie,” he said, leaning forward and grabbing one more shot, throwing it back, “What’s phase two?”  
“Phase two is you using your now socially lubricated and chaotic drunk self to tell those boys what you really think.”  
“What?” Kevin demanded, sitting up quickly, “No no no, I can’t do that, Meg, I can’t!”  
“Why not?” she asked, “Come on Kevin, you can say anything to them if you stop cowering to them! You keep thinking that they’re the ones with the power, but they’re not. Can they read the tablets? Are they prophets?”  
“No,” Kevin mumbled. She slid off the table, bracing her hands on the back of the chair and leaning over him.  
“That’s right, they’re not. You are. That means that you have something they don’t.”  
“You want me to…blackmail them?” he asked incredulously. She smirked, rolling her eyes.  
“No, Dumplin. I want you to make them realize this isn’t an office where they big fish get to boss around the little fish. This is a team- do the quarterbacks win the game, or does the whole team?”  
“I’m not into football,” he replied sheepishly, “That analogy kinda doesn’t mean anything to me.”  
“Okay, what are you into?” she asked.

Kevin blushed, sinking down in his seat. Dean had no idea what he was talking about and even Sam had given him a weird look when he brought up his favorite game to them before. It made him feel stupid enough when they did it, but he felt like he would absolutely die if she made fun of him for it.  
“It’s nerdy.” She shrugged, raising an eyebrow.  
“So? You’re nerdy, that’s your thing,” she replied, leaning away from him, “Come on, I promise I won’t laugh. Pinkie swear.”  
“I really liked this card game,” he said.  
“Okay, we talkin bridge, spades, war, 52 pickup, what am I working with here?” she asked.  
“Um, it’s not exactly a game like that. It’s called Magic.”

Meg held up a finger, walking into the kitchen and grabbing another bottle of booze. She returned, tossing the bottle up and down in her hand.  
“Okay, Dorkenstein,” she said, “Show me what Magic cards are.”

Kevin looked at her like the sun shined out of her ass, making her squirm a little.  
“What?” she demanded, “I can’t be curious?”  
“No, it’s not that,” he said quickly, “I just…are you serious? You really want me to show you?”  
“No, I want you to show the whiskey, I wanna see if it’s sentient,” she replied, “What else are we gonna do? I don’t think you’re ready for my preferred hijinks in places like this, and I’m not really a movie person. Unless you wanna sit here and just drink in silence, but that would make us alcoholics. If we play a game while we get drunk, then it’s just “social drinking” and we can feel better about ourselves.”

Kevin laughed, rising out of his seat, his balance a little off.  
“Okay, I’ll show you.”

* * *

 

To Meg’s surprise, Kevin’s little “Magic” game was actually pretty amusing. He had like, 7 decks with all sorts of fancy slipcovers on them, all well-kept and well cared for, and cringing as she flipped through each one like he was ready to wipe her fingerprint smudges off of them. He let her pick a deck after explaining each deck’s strengths and weaknesses, and even though he was currently kicking her ass, she was pretty fucking drunk and having a great time.

“It’s your turn,” Kevin giggled, his nose and cheeks stained red, his eyes glassy. Oh, he was well wasted now.  
“Hold your horses, Yalad,” she replied with a smirk. He leaned over the table, holding his chin in his hands.  
“Did you play games with your kids?” he asked. She made her move, nodding.  
“I did,” she replied, “And you are just like my youngest was when we played.”  
Kevin perked up a little, the game between them forgotten. She had volunteered that bit, without any prodding. He wanted to know more.

“Was he a great strategist like me?” he giggled. She laughed, rolling her eyes.  
“He had a big head when he was drunk and he was impatient when he thought he was winning,” she replied, “He was sweet, but such a child. He had all the best parts of me and the worst parts of his father. He always hated losing games. He’d throw such tantrums, he even broke my _Naqam_ board once.”  
“Naqam?”  
“You humans could never figure out what it was, so you just called it “Twenty Squares”. In Tyre, we called in _Naqam_ , or “Avenge.” It’s very similar in concept to your game “Sorry”. Every time my Joram would beg me, ‘Imm, Imm, play with me’, I would, and I would win and he’d throw such a fit, even as a teenager,” she seemed to stare off past Kevin, sighing, “I never let him win. All of his playmates did- but a man learns more from losing than he ever has from winning.”  
“My mom was like that,” Kevin said with a smile, “She never let me win at anything because she said it was a hollow victory that had no worth. But when I did win, I could tell that she was proud of me, even if she was a little pissed that she lost.”  
“Your mother taught you well, then,” she replied with a small smile, “But you don’t quite remind me of my Joram. You remind me more of my Athaliah. She always had such a keen mind, from the day I met her. She asked me a thousand questions and remembered every answer I gave her, and she was always so willing to see the good in everyone. And she was beautiful too- she looked just like her mother. She was a special sort of person.”  
“Did you love her as much as you loved your children?” he asked, making her raise her eyebrow.  
“She was my child,” she replied simply, “Her mother entrusted her to me on her deathbed, and she had raised me more than my own stepmother. I loved her as much as my boys. But truth be told, she and I did have a special bond, more like sisters than mother and daughter. I suppose, if anything, that made her more special to me.”

Kevin couldn’t help in his drunken haze but to feel that he was just paid a tremendous compliment by someone who rarely gave compliments, and none as personal as the one she just gave him. He watched as she drank more from the half empty bottle between them, somehow looking so much older to him than she did just a few minutes before. She really was a mother, and Kevin could tell that she really loved her children. He wanted to ask her what made her change, what happened to make her go from a strict but loving mother to a mass murdering demon. But the longer he looked at her, the less, he decided, it mattered to him. He didn’t know her when she was killing anyone she felt like. Dean and Sam had both told Kevin that anyone they killed, they had no choice, but that wasn’t true. Meg didn’t lie to him- she killed people and that was that. She didn’t try to tell him that she had changed, or that she had her reasons, or anything like that. She told him the facts, and left it to him to decide. She didn’t lie, even when she knew that he’d had it shoved down his throat that all demons do is lie. She made a decision to be truthful, and it was up to him to accept or reject it.

“Thanks for always being so honest with me,” he mumbled, resting his head on the table, “Even when I don’t like what I hear.”  
“I may be a demon, but I keep my word. I told you I wouldn’t lie to you, so I won’t.”  
He gave her a wide smile, his cheek resting against the table.  
“So…now that you know what Magic is, can you finish that analogy you were trying to make?” he asked in a snarky tone, letting out a giggle. She leaned back in her chair, nodding.  
“I’ll take a bash at it,” she replied, “You like that Allies deck a fuckload, right?”  
“Yup,” Kevin said, “It’s always been my favorite deck.”  
She leaned over, picking up one of his cards.  
“One ally isn’t very powerful alone, right? But when you gather two…or three, or fucking ten of them, you little prick-“  
He giggled again, hiding his face in his arm.  
“-They become more powerful, because they work in tandem, right?”  
“Right.”  
“So, you need to look at this group like you look at an ally deck. Alone? Yeah, you’re weak. You’re a squishy human without much combat or magical experience. But, you can read the tablets. Sam and Dean have all sorts of physical prowess, but they have no brains. Well, not as many as you at least. And Cas is basically a giant moron who knows all sorts of magic but generally doesn’t seem to be able to string together a complete thought, let alone a plan as to use that knowledge. So, without you…they’re weak,” she finished, flicking the card at him, “Get it?”  
“Got it,” Kevin singsonged, sitting up and picking up the card.  
“Besides,” she said, looking down, “I like this game. It’s a slow start but once you get going, It’s a hell of a lot of fun.”

They both looked up as Kevin’s phone started chirping, their eyes meeting across the table. Kevin lifted a hand, trying to motion for her to calm down, despite being completely calm.

“Meg…” he said gently, losing his balance for a minute, “You’re drunk, don’t do anything stupid.”  
“Stupid how?” she asked, her eyes darting over to the phone, “Like…answer this phone stupid?”  
“No!”

They both dived across the table for the phone, a tangle of flailing limbs until Kevin found himself shoved off the table to the floor by Meg’s (weirdly flexible) leg and foot. He looked up in horror as she pressed the green button, turning on the speaker phone.

“Kevin, what the fuck took you so long to answer?” Dean’s voice echoed with tinny quality around the large room. Kevin flopped back on the floor, just staring up at the ceiling with a look of total despair on his face as Meg covered the microphone.  
“I’m dead. Call up AMC, I really am The Walking Dead, right here,” he moaned, throwing his arms over his face. Meg shook her head, rolling her eyes.  
“Such drama, Yalad,” she teased, uncovering the microphone, “Kevin Tran’s phone, how may I direct your call?” she said in a cheesy, secretary-like voice.

“What the fuck-“  
“Whoa whoa whoa, what’s with the hostility, Rocky?” she replied.  
“How the hell did you get Kevin’s phone? What the fuck did you do? Where’s Kevin?”  
“Relax, Dean-o,” she said, chuckling as she looked down at Kevin, “I would never hurt one hair on Kevin’s precious little head. We just decided that since you boys were off gallivanting all over God’s green earth looking for your very own Christmas angel, we would have a little sleepover.”  
“Sleepover’s over,” he hissed, “Put Kevin on the phone. Now.”  
“Party pooper, no cake for you,” she simpered before breaking into a loud laugh, “I don’t think so, hot stuff. I finally got the kid to relax and you’ll just wind him up like a toy. Here’s what I am gonna do. I am gonna hang up this phone and tell him you’ll be home soon and we can work out this little…wrinkle when you get here.”  
“I’m gonna rip out your fucking-“  
“Kay, thanks, bye!” she said cheerfully, turning the phone off completely before shoving it in the pocket of her hand-me-down sweats. Kevin looked up at her with a despairing look on his face, his knees pulled up to his chest. She bent down, crouching in front of him and ruffling his hair gently.

“You look like you just sniffed your own funeral shroud,” she said softly.  
“He’s going to kill me,” he mumbled, his face white as a sheet, “I should’ve never let you out, I should’ve never done any of this, and now I’m gonna die.”

Dean wasn’t going to do anything to Kevin- she knew that somewhere inside all that asshole, Dean liked Kevin, cared about him. He’d just yell his head off. Hell, if anyone was gonna get murdered for this, it was gonna be her. She couldn’t help herself. She laughed.

He looked up at her, red faced and clearly furious.  
“Oh, you can laugh!” he spat. She cleared her throat, feeling…wait a second, did she actually feel guilty?  
“Kevin, he’s not going to kill you,” she said calmly, “He needs you, and besides, prick he may be, kid-killer he is not.”  
“Okay, so he’s not gonna kill me. He’ll probably beat the shit out of me and lock me up in the dungeon and never let me see the light of day again.”  
“God, you went from happy drunk to sad drunk full throttle,” she said, rolling her eyes, “Do you really think that Sam would let Dean do that?”  
“Sam never stands up to Dean! He just does whatever he’s told,” Kevin said, “I’m a goner.”  
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” she said, grabbing him and pulling him up to his feet, “Say you’re right- which in this case, you’re not. I personally won’t let Dean do anything but yell a lot, okay? I’ve beat the shit out of both of them before, I’ll do it again if I have to. Does that make you feel better?”  
“Yeah,” Kevin sniffed, “It does.”  
“Good,” she said with a curt nod, “Now, let’s get you back to happy drunk.”

* * *

  
Dean stared at the phone, his mind trying to process exactly what the fuck just happened. He stared blankly for a while, his mouth hanging open slack, until finally, it all really registered.

“Son of a fucking bitch!” he roared, pounding his fists off the steering wheel. Both Sam and Cas leaned away from his little rage fit, glad that neither of them were the poor steering wheel or the current target of his ire.  
“What’s going on?” Sam finally worked up the courage to ask. Dean whipped his head around, giving him a look that could freeze water.  
“Your demon cunt girlfriend tricked Kevin into letting her out of the dungeon!” he spat, whirling around to look at Cas, “Or maybe she’s your demon cunt girlfriend! How would I fucking know, everybody seems to have all sorts of shit going on behind my back!”

“Meg is still alive?”

Both brothers were knocked into silence at the tone of Castiel’s voice- like he’d never heard such an amazing, confusing, confounding thing ever spoken. They both turned to look at Cas, glancing at one another.

“Well, so much for the whole telling him when we got there thing,” Dean groaned, resting his head on the steering wheel. Sam glanced over at him, giving him a look.  
“You’re the one who just started yelling about her,” Sam muttered, looking back at Cas, “Yeah, Meg’s still alive.”  
“And…” he paused, his brow furrowed, “She is human now?”  
“No,” Dean said irritably, “No. Sam never finished the trials and we haven’t had time since to try it again independent of the trials.”

Castiel looked as if he were trying to solve a difficult equation, his body hunched over as his face scrunched up in thought.  
“Uh, Cas, you okay?” Sam asked. Castiel looked up at Sam, the same expression on his face.  
“Physically, yes. I am okay, all things considered,” he replied, “But I am trying to decide how I feel about this new information.”

Dean snorted, pulling back on the highway and gunning the gas.  
“Why don’t you talk us through it to pass the time,” he said sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

“Well,” Cas began, the whole ‘sarcasm’ thing lost on him, “I feel pleased that she is alive, but I also feel confused as to why she is alive still. If the purification ritual failed, then the only logical course of action given your strong and well warranted hatred of demons would be to kill her, but you haven’t. To what is your purpose?”  
“Beats me,” Dean said, giving Cas an irritable smile in the rearview mirror, “Sam’s the one who insisted we keep her alive.”  
Sam looked at Cas through the rearview mirror, suddenly feeling extremely uncomfortable.  
“Well, I thought…” he began, “Considering you…and her…you know.”  
“I’m afraid I don’t understand, Sam,” Cas said, frowning, “Have you kept her alive because you thought that it would please me?”  
“Not exactly, no,” Sam admitted, “I just thought that you two were…close?”  
“She is a demon, Sam,” Cas replied, “While we have been allied before, that fact still remains.”  
“But she helped you,” Sam said, “You…you used the name she called you by as an alias. You made out with her in front of us.”  
“Made out?” he asked, “Oh, I kissed her. Well, yes, I did. She kissed me, it seemed like the appropriate response.”

Sam just stared at him- it was such a...Cas answer. But it still bothered him- all those gestures of kindness, of fondness, all the compliments and concern for her safety…he couldn’t have misinterpreted all of that.

“So, the whole…thorny pain and beauty thing, telling me to stay outside with her, all of that was just….what, exactly?”  
“You must understand, Sam,” Cas said, “That while I felt and saw and did these things, they go against my very nature. I am…well, I was, an angel. I was created to protect humans and to destroy all that is evil. She is a demon, and by definition…evil. I was, and still am, trying to decide how exactly I feel about her.”  
“Here’s how you feel about her,” Dean butted in, “She’s a fucking demon who has raised hell and killed countless people, which mean’s she’s evil, and we don’t have to decide how we feel about evil. We just hate it, no thinking required.”  
“But is she really all that evil?” Sam argued, “I mean, she’s spent more time being our ally than being our enemy.”  
“No, she’s spent more time being forced to help us. That’s not being an ally.”  
“Dean, we didn’t force her to help you get Cas’s memory back and save me, we didn’t force her to stay and take care of Cas, we didn’t force her to protect us, we didn’t force her to go after the Leviathans, we didn’t force her to show us where the crypt was, and even though we forced her to do the purification ritual, she could’ve fought back, but she didn’t, even though she didn’t want it.”  
“Are you hearing this?” Dean demanded, looking through the rearview mirror at Castiel, “Come on man, back me up here.”  
“I’m not pleased to admit it, but Sam does seem to have a point,” Castiel mused, “Meg has had numerous opportunities to do evil and “raise hell” as you say, but since the rise of the Leviathans she has been nothing if not eagerly helpful.”

“Great,” Dean muttered, rubbing his face irritably, “Just fucking great. You’re on the demon screwing train too.”  
“Why is that always the first place you go?” Sam demanded, “Oh, she has a vagina, that could be the only reason I’d ever be interested in helping her!”  
“Oh no, it’s not just the pussy, Sammy, it’s the pussy combined with the demon,” Dean said, “Those two are a pretty deadly combination for you, huh?”

Dean made a fatal error- he made the error of looking at his brother right after he’d finished saying that, seeing the blood just drain out of his face. He watched as his brother seemed to shrivel away in front of him, his eyes glassy and red, the tip of his nose going red as it always did when Sam was either on the verge or actually crying. And man, did he feel like shit for it.

“Sam,” Dean sighed, “Look, I didn’t-“  
“It’s fine,” Sam said sharply, trying to hide that he was sniffling. Dean opened his mouth to speak again, only to feel Castiel’s hand on his shoulder, shaking his head.  
“I think it would be best if we avoid this discussion any further,” Cas said in a soft tone, “It’s not doing us any good.”

Dean looked back at the road, white knuckling the steering wheel. Did he think he was lying? Well, no, he meant what he said- Sam did seem to have a thing for monsters. But…he really shouldn’t have said it the way he did. It seemed like every time Meg was involved in anything, he had a huge knot in his gut, a huge fucking knot of hate that he could never swallow or get past, even when she did get it right. She’d done too much for him to ever consider her anything more than a useful tool that needed to be destroyed when he was done with it.

“You wanna debate? Fine. Let’s debate,” Dean said, “You wanna keep her around, treat her nice, because she’s helped us out. Well, okay, I can take that. But let me remind you of the shit she did before that. Killing all those people, killing Pastor Jim, killing Jo and Ellen, kidnapping and torturing Dad, working for fucking Lucifer himself? Or when she shanghaied your body and used you to murder hunters, to torture Jo, and god knows what else that you don’t remember and we didn’t see? What about the fact that she was running with old Yellow eyes, huh? Did you ever consider that she could’ve had a hand in killing Mom, killing Jess? Did you ever think of that?”  
“Other people we’ve allied with have done things just as bad. We’ve done things just as bad.”  
“Like hell we have!” Dean snapped, “What have we done that could possibly be compared to what she did?”  
“Dean, I don’t wanna fight,” Sam said tiredly, “You don’t want to listen-“  
“Oh no, Sam. I’m listening, I got my listening ears on,” Dean replied, “Why don’t you tell me what you think we’ve done that compares to that.”  
“Okay,” Sam sighed, “Meg worked for Lucifer trying to start the apocalypse. But every person in this car also had a hand in starting an apocalypse- Me, You, and Cas- and we all stopped them, and the second time around we couldn’t have done it without her. But how many parents have we killed, huh? We never stop to think about it but…every person we kill means something to someone.”  
“They were monsters.”  
“What about the vessels of the demons we killed? Or the angels?” Sam asked, “They were people, Dean. People who didn’t do anything wrong. I think it’s fair to say that we’ve fucked up some lives, and we’ve had a huge hand in a lot more.”  
“Are you fucking serious right now?” Dean demanded, “You think her killing people for kicks, killing people we loved, is anything like us hunting?”  
“No, it’s not the same, that’s not what I’m saying,” Sam replied, taking a deep breath, “I’m saying that everyone has done things that are bad, that they shouldn’t have done, that in any other context would be absolutely horrible...but because of the way they lived, the situations they lived in, they became necessary in their minds. And I think that should be something we consider…I mean, wouldn’t you want someone to do the same for us? To any cop, or family member of the monster we hunted, we’re the bad guys. It’s like they say, the villain is always the hero in his mind.”  
“So what, we’re villains now?” Dean demanded.  
“No, you’re not listening-“  
“I’m listening, and none of what you’re saying makes a damn bit of sense to me.”  
“All I’m saying is that yeah, she was our nightmare, but we’re someone else’s nightmare- a whole lot of someone elses. I just don’t think we can look at her case in black and white- I can’t do it and still feel okay about it.”  
“Oh my god, you have got to at least be with me on this, Cas,” Dean demanded. Cas looked sheepishly between them, sinking low in the back seat.

“Well, while I don’t necessarily agree in Meg’s case, I can see the point that Sam is trying to make,” Cas mumbled, “I myself have been no stranger to doing…how do you put it- all the wrong things for all the right reasons. It’s difficult to say what Meg’s motivations were when she committed the acts that she has, and perhaps Sam is right- she believed she was doing what was necessary to facilitate her survival.”  
“She is an evil skank. She’s always been an evil skank, and she always will be an evil skank, and nothing will change that,” Dean snapped, slapping his hand off the steering wheel.  
“But-“

Cas cleared his throat, leaning forward again.

“It’s clear that I am a passive participant in this debate whose only purpose is to be called upon for support, but I must ask- does Meg know that you are so single-minded in your defense of her?” he asked. Sam blushed furiously, folding his arms across his chest. He was not being single minded in her defense- he just didn’t think it was totally fair that she had done so much for them that it didn’t matter. No, it didn’t make up for what she’d done, nothing ever could, but it didn’t sit right with him that Dean decided that she was going to die whenever he decided- which would be when she stopped being useful or pissed him off enough.

“I’m not saying she’s good. I’m not saying we should trust her. All I’m saying is that she’s spent a lot of time helping us when it doesn’t help her, and she hasn’t asked for anything more than the opportunity to kill Crowley- which would actually be great for us. Keep her on a short leash, fine, but keeping her locked up in the dungeon...it doesn’t feel right to me,” Sam paused, looking over at Dean, “We’ve taken preventative measures this whole time, even though she hasn’t been a threat in years. And I get that, I do. But at this point, the worst thing she’s done since we put Lucifer in the cage is apparently trick Kevin into letting her out of the dungeon- and I gotta be honest, I don’t think it took much tricking. Hunting isn’t black and white Dean, it hasn’t been for a long time- it stopped being black and white when angels and God and everything else came at us. We learned firsthand that Angels are not all good, even the good ones. Maybe some demons aren’t all bad. How bad would it really be to just put her back in the spare room we had her in before? That’s all. I’m not saying let her roam free. I’m just asking for something a little less…barbaric.”

Dean sighed, considering what Sam said. Yeah, he hated the bitch and he wanted to kill her, sure…but it was a little too tempting to agree, if for no other reason than to piss off Zeke. He pursed his lips, trying to decide what he wanted to do.

“Cas?” he asked, “What do you think? You’re part of the team, you get a say.”

Cas pondered silently, rubbing his face. Sam had some vey good points, and even he saw good in Meg.

“Sam has presented some good points and I think it is a rather small thing to ask,” Cas replied, “After all- we wouldn’t have been able to cast the Leviathans back to Purgatory without her help- she did help save the world. You have continued to help me, to be my friend, despite the things I have done; and I’ve done things that you have killed many for. You’ve killed many for less. I think her recent behavior should count for something,” he looked at Dean, a pleading look on his face, “I was not always…good to you, helpful. Sam is right, not all angels are good, and I am one of them who had to learn the hard way that angelic orders were not always right. You were patient, you taught me, you accepted me into the fold even when I strayed so far and caused you both such pain. I have seen that she has the capacity for great good, and she has demonstrated that capacity on numerous occasions. I think it is something you should consider. It will make Sam feel better, Dean.”

Dean didn’t like their logic, and he didn’t like that he found himself understanding their point somewhat. Cas was right; he’d fucked them over a few times, done some screwed up shit, but yeah, they always let him come back. All things considered, Cas’s history made him a pretty big threat, even bigger than Meg in all reality. He nodded slowly, sighing.

“I’ll think about it,” he said firmly, “Don’t get all excited- that’s not a yes, it’s not a no, it’s a maybe. I’ll think about it.”

“I guess that’s all I can ask for,” Sam said, smiling a little. Dean either said no or maybe- because maybe always ended up with a begrudging yes. Sam learned that early on about his brother- if he could get Dean to think about something, to say maybe, he usually got what he wanted. Dean rolled his eyes at the happy look on Sam’s face, leaning forward and flicking on the radio.

“Now, will you two please let me jam out in peace?”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the delay between chapters- my computer decided that 8 years was as long as it wanted to work, and it took a royal dump. But, no worries, because it wasn't a problem with the hard drive. Anyways, thank you for your patience, all like...15 of you who read this story, lol.

“Kevin. Get off me.”

She’d gotten him a little too drunk- he’d passed out next to her on the small couch, and his unconscious body had slumped over and was now leaning heavily on her shoulder. She rolled her eyes, closing her book with a huff. She didn’t like this- he was too comfortable, too eager to lean on her. He was too close.  
She tried instead to focus on the words on the page of the book in her hands, but she found herself re-reading the same sentence over and over, her mind wandering. She knew they would be back soon, and things were gonna go straight to hell- metaphorically speaking , of course. She looked down at the teenager, his head pressed against her shoulder. She resisted the urge to reach out and brush his hair from his face- _Gross, what the hell is the matter with you? Don’t get attached, He’s human, and he’s with the fucking Winchesters- you know he has an expiration date, dumbass._  
That didn’t quite settle right with her- the idea that Kevin had an expiration date, natural or otherwise. She didn’t like the thought of a world without a person like him- she knew it was disgustingly sappy and stupid, but she felt that humans like him were too rare, too fascinating in their uniqueness to allow them to slip away.  
_You’re putting another boy’s face on his head. He is not Joram, or Ahaziah. He is not your child. He is not your responsibility. Are you insane, or just fucking stupid?_  
_Probably both- definitely both._

“Lush,” she muttered, setting the book aside, “Kevin, wake up. I’m not a pillow.”  
Kevin let out a sleepy huff, not moving much to her irritation. Clearly, he was one of those “giant toddler” drunks- if she knew anything, she figured he would be out cold for the next hour or so at least- and unless she wanted to be a huge fucking bitch, then she was stuck.  
_Wait, since when do I not want to be a huge fucking bitch? This is nuttier than chipmunk shit._  
She didn’t have the heart to yank herself away and let the kid face plant into the cushions. Well, what else was she gonna do? She closed her eyes, leaning her head back.

It’s true that demons don’t need sleep- the biological functions that are critical to human survival aren’t necessities to her. Eating, drinking, sleeping- she didn’t need to do any of those things, but they were some of the few things that still gave her pleasure, after so long. She enjoyed food, she enjoyed alcohol just as much as a cold drink of water. The only thing she didn’t like about sleeping was the whole unable to defend herself thing, but she’d never been above finding herself a nice little hidey hole to curl up in. It gave her a chance to play dead. Simple unconsciousness was divine- no memories, no thoughts, no dreams or missions or causes. Just nothingness. Such opportunities for her were rare- especially recently. How long had it been since she’d let herself sleep? It felt like centuries.  
But this feeling wasn’t like sleeping. No, she felt like she’d been sucked into another place, and when her eyes opened- Kevin, the bunker, all of it was gone.

_She could feel the rock and sway of the wagon, the sound of the men and the livestock and the smell of it wafting to her nose. She could feel the weight of a head upon her shoulder, the sound of a girl’s shallow breathing. She could feel each rattling breath the woman next to her took, the soft sound of fluid and gurgling ringing in her ears._   
_Then, sputtering gasps, a hand gripping her arm, the metallic tang of blood in the air._   
_“Imma?”_

“Ishah!”  
Her eyes flew open, her whole body jerking and shoving the weight off of her. Her body trembled as Kevin’s whole body jerked to wakefulness. He’d been sound asleep and then suddenly he was smashing into the floor, what the hell? He glared up at her, rubbing his head.  
“What the hell was that?” he demanded, rubbing his eyes, “I didn’t even do anything…”. He opened his mouth to continue to protest when he saw her face- ghostly white, her eyes engulfed in black, staring straight ahead. It freaked him out- he’d never seen her look so pale, and he wasn’t used to seeing her eyes black.  
“Meg?” he said softly, reaching out to her. She snatched his wrist faster than his eyes could track the movement, her face inches from his. He swallowed shallowly as he stared into the bottomless black pools that had replaced her eyes, a deep shudder running through his body, his blood running cold. He’d never been so…utterly terrified. Not even the Leviathans scared him like this- he couldn’t move, he couldn’t even blink.

“Don’t touch me,” she growled in a not-so-human voice, making Kevin’s whole body shudder again. Whatever this was, it wasn’t something he ever wanted to see or experience again.  
“I’m sorry,” he whispered in a high, breathy voice filled with terror, ”I’m sorry, please-“  
Her grip tightened as she twisted his arm, her nails digging into his skin. He let out a desperate yelp, his hand scrabbling at hers. She was going to snap his arm like a twig if she kept twisting it like that.

“Meg-ah, please, let go…” he gasped, writhing desperately to relieve the pain, “You’re hurting me!”

The black receded yet again and Meg blinked hard, seeming to finally realize what she was doing. She jerked away, releasing his wrist, watching as he rubbed it. She was horrified- she didn’t realize who he was at first. It had taken her too long to recognize him as Kevin, that he wasn’t a threat, and she’d actually hurt him. And that weird feeling, that guilty feeling, crept up on her again and she hated it. Why did it matter if she hurt him? Why did she even care?  
_You’re getting attached, that’s why, you stupid bitch. Don’t. Get. Attached._

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she said, her apologetic expression giving way to a haughty one, “But you should’ve listened when I told you to get off.” She recoiled inside her armor, the wall safely back in place.   
_That was a wee bit too close for comfort- this memory shit is fucking me up._

“I was asleep,” he snapped at her, scrambling away, out of her reach, “I didn’t realize it was gonna make you use kung-fu grip on me.”  
She refused to look at him- he was right, he hadn’t done anything wrong, he was just being a stupid kid, a stupid human- but she didn’t like being touched, not so familiarly, not so…positively. She wasn’t used to that, and it tripped something up in her brain.  
“I said I was sorry,” she snapped at him, curling her knees back into her chest. God, what more did he want? A kiss to make it better?  
“Yeah, it didn’t sound like you meant it though,” Kevin muttered grumpily. He sighed, looking up at her and seeing through the shit- something was bugging her. He’d never seen her lose her cool like that, and he was kinda worried. What if she did it again and did break his arm?  
“Did you have a bad dream or something?” he asked, pausing for a moment, “Can demons even have dreams?”  
“Not exactly, because we don’t really need sleep. I sleep because I like it- well, apparently I used to. Now I’m stuck with memories,” she muttered, rubbing her face, “It’s getting harder to tune them out.”  
“Why?”  
“I don’t fucking know,” she snapped irritably, “Maybe it’s the after effects of human blood. Y’know, like acid trips permanently fuck up your brain if you have enough of them.”  
Kevin looked at her sympathetically, knowing what that was like. It took months for him to stop seeing Crowley torturing him every time he closed his eyes.

She hated the way he was looking at her- like he felt sorry for her, like she was some poor, sad, broken little thing. She was a fucking demon who had ripped souls to shreds with her bare hands- she wasn’t some pathetic, doe-eyed, traumatized child. She was a fucking beast. She was a terror. She needed no one’s pity, no one’s prayers- and what’s more, she didn’t fucking want it.

“Stop looking at me,” she spat at him, “Stop looking at me like that.”  
“Like what?”  
“Like you pity me,” she snarled, “I don’t want your pity, pity does no one a shred of fucking good.”

She pulled her knees tighter to her chest, her lips pressed in a thin line as he continued to look at her with that stupid fucking look- clearly still drunk, but a lot less giggly than he was before his little nap. He was still staring at her and she wanted to rip his warm brown eyes right out of his stupid fucking skull and put them in a goddamn jar. Then he could stare all he fucking pleased.  
Kevin was still buzzed- he could feel that much, but he didn’t quite feel as….wobbly, as before. It was a good feeling and he worried a bit about how much he was liking it. This wasn’t gonna be a regular thing. He could see she was mad, and he knew why. She wasn’t hard to understand when it came to things like this- she was, weirdly enough, just like Dean in this aspect. He hated when people saw him knocked down, when someone saw him at his weakest. He always figured that was half the reason Dean lashed out at Sam so much- Sam had seen him weak, had seen him down and out, and that made him angry.  
_I guess I’m her Sam. Weird._

“It makes you angry, doesn’t it?” he asked, “That I can see that you’re hurting. You’re angry because it makes you feel weak.”  
he was quiet for a moment- a rarity, but he could see the fury in her eyes. He’d hit a tender spot. She looked away sharply, her arms folded across her chest tightly.  
“You would know a lot about feeling weak, wouldn’t you?” she demanded in a nasty tone, not looking at him. Kevin was a little shocked- this wasn’t exactly the reaction he expected.  
“I’m not weak,” he replied, his shock clear in his tone.  
“You can’t even stand up for yourself,” she said softly, “A pillar of strength, you are not.”

Something inside him snapped when he words registered in his mind. Was she really calling him weak? Was she seriously mocking him- what the fuck? He let her out! He defended her to Sam- he’d been the one helping her more than anyone this whole fucking time, and she wanted to mock him, hurt his feelings?

“Fuck you!” he exploded, jumping to his feet as she stared at him blankly, “That’s right, fuck you! Yeah, so I’m not ten feet tall and able to chop off monster heads in one swing of a dull fucking machete! Maybe I don’t kill people for fun, maybe I’m not an angel or a demon or whatever, but fuck you, I am not weak! You spend all this time feeding me this absolute bullshit about you being so big and bad and hard, but I see through that shit in a second. You wanna put on that mask for them, fine, I don’t blame you- Dean would take advantage of any little weakness you show him and shit, Sam probably would too. But I saw it. You miss them, you miss your family, you hurt every time you think about them, just like I hurt every time I think of my mom!”

He paused, her blank expression just fueling his fire.

“You wanna say I’m weak? You don’t know how hard it is to fight the way I do! Every day, I wake up and I wonder if today is gonna be the day I die, if today is gonna be the day that someone comes for me. You don’t know how hard it is not to just lie down and give up- I mean, what am I doing this for? The angels? Sam and Dean? Because that’s what I’m made to do? Do you understand how much of my life was thrown into absolute chaos because of all this- I had only been to church for weddings and funerals before all this. I didn’t know what I believed in- God or angels or a flying spaghetti monster; and all the sudden I find out not only is God real, but he doesn’t care about us and he put this job on me, me of all people. Why me, huh?” he turned, kicking one of the chairs over, “I have fucking anxiety, Meg, and I’ve had it all my life! I’m sure you have no idea what that is because you’re a fucking ancient demon that doesn’t even know the difference between love and tolerance so I’ll fucking explain it to you- it’s when you feel like your insides are turning to ice cold Jell-O but you can’t stop sweating and you can’t catch your breath and your heart feels like someone is reaching inside you and crushing it in a fucking Hulk grip and there is literally nothing you can do about it except pop some pills or use self-affirmations which are completely fucking pointless when you realize that the one thing that usually comforts people is a fucking lie- in fact, it’s the exact opposite is the truth! Every day I wake up and my head is pounding and I feel like a giant is sitting on my chest and crushing me to death, but I still get up and I smile and I do what needs doing even though I have no idea what’s happening and I have no idea what I’m supposed to do next. Every single day, I feel that! I can’t eat because everything comes back up and what doesn’t makes my stomach feel like it’s ripping itself apart, I only sleep because my body just finally gives out after days of insomnia and trying to figure this out, but I don’t get any rest because I’m busy having nightmares about angels or demons coming and killing me! I’m the weak one?” he shoved his finger in her face, his cheeks blazing and his whole body drawn taught as a bow, “I’m still fucking here, aren’t I? I was tortured, I feel like I’m slowly dying and I’m still doing it! What about you, huh? Yeah, you’re big and bad but you still have moments where you’re weak and you won’t admit it, which makes you pathetic!”

She looked up at him, folding her arms and raising an eyebrow, incensing him further.

“And now you’re giving me that look like this was your plan all along, I can see it in your face!” he raged, “You’re a master of bullshit- every time something happens, you twist it around to make everyone think it was your plan all along and it’s absolute bullshit!”  
“You’re right,” she said simply, looking up at him with an indifferent expression.  
“I am not- wait, did you just say I was _right_?”  
“Yes,” she replied, “You’re right.”

Kevin stared at her, knowing he looked just as confused as he felt. That was not at all what he expected; but then again, he had no idea why he bothered with expecting things from Meg. She didn’t have a habit of being predictable. In fact, her response just knocked all the fight out of him, it took him so off-guard. He stood there, his chest heaving as he watched her examine her nails.

“I hate admitting when I’m weak, and I’ll do anything to make myself not look weak,” she said, “So yes, you’re right.” She stood up, patting his cheek sharply, “See? You can stand up for yourself. You just gotta get mad enough.”

“I fucking hate you,” he whispered, glaring at her. Meg laughed, shaking her head. Oh, he thought he hated her- it was actually cute.  
“You don’t hate me,” she chuckled, “You’re angry with me because I’m right. Just like I was angry that you were right.”

Kevin opened his mouth to speak, but they were interrupted by the sound of the bunker door opening.  
_Shit. And the circus has returned._  
They both looked up as Dean dashed down the stairs, looking concerned as his head swung around, trying to make sure the bunker hadn’t burnt down or something. They shared a look of irritation, Meg barely stopping herself from laughing. Maybe she and Kevin were a little more alike than she previously thought. He gestured to Dean, looking nervous, barely breathing. She rolled her eyes, waving him off.  
_Yeah yeah, I’ll protect you._  
Meg folded her arms, stepping into Dean’s sight as if she owned the place. Which in all reality- a reality that no one seemed to realize was true- she really did. She had Dean in her pocket- if he killed her, who would translate the tablet. If he pissed her off too bad, she might tell Sam about Gadreel; and if he killed her, great. She had Sam in her pocket- he was too curious for his own good, and it had been proven time and time again that Sam was willing to put up with just about anything if he could work the ends to fit his desires. And Kevin….well. At this point it was pretty fair to say they were in each other’s pockets. That was all she needed to stand before Dean Fucking Winchester, fully confident.

“Lookin for me, numbnuts?” she demanded, giving him a cocky grin. She could see every bit of his rage in his finely lined features, marveling for a moment at the fact that he had grown so much. They both did- she forgot about that sometimes. That humans aged. She was snapped from her revelry at the sound of his voice, though, her teeth setting on edge.  
“What did you do?” he demanded, puffing his chest out like a fucking child about to get into a playground brawl. She couldn’t help but smirk- some things never changed.  
_Men only get taller._  
She shrugged, putting her hands on her hips.  
“Killed some people, set some stuff on fire, broke some stuff,” she replied carelessly, “You know, just girly things.”  
“Where the fuck is Kevin?”  
She lifted her fingers to her lips, whistling loudly.  
“Come on, kid,” she called out, not breaking eye contact with Dean, “Time to face the music.”  
Dean moved forward, running flat into Meg’s palm. Oh, what, did he think she was really gonna let him come near Kevin when he was busy pounding his chest like a fucking gorilla?  
“You can just stay right there, big boy,” she said in a low tone, “Take it easy.”  
He gave her the most venomous look he could muster, thinking of all the ways he could rip her limb from limb. She had the fucking nerve to tell him to take it easy? This was his home, his kingdom, not hers. This was exactly why he didn’t want to let her out.  
“Oh, that’s fucking rich, coming from you,” he snarled, slamming his palms into her shoulders, making her stumble, “Get the fuck out of my way before I fucking move you myself.”  
“Push me again, Winchester, and I’ll break your arm in five places,” she snarled, “You couldn’t move me if you wanted to, unless you took a cheap shot. But that’s what you’re best at, isn’t it? Cheap shots.”  
“Yeah, you know all about cheap shots, don’t you?”  
“Oh yeah Dean, I really do,” she said with a nasty grin, leaning towards him, “Just like that cheap shot where I stole your Daddy right from under your nose.”

Sam and Cas stood stock still- it was like something on the discovery channel. Two predators, sizing each other up as prey, both ready to pounce at a moment’s notice.  
“I will fucking kill you for that and everything else,” he said in a deadly soft tone, “Count on it.”  
“I’m counting down the moments,” she said just as softly, licking her lips as they curled into a sneer,“Till you finally get the sack to do it.”

There was clearly a battle of wills going on between Meg and Dean- a battle that neither Sam nor Cas knew how to react to. If Sam didn’t know better, he’d even say that there was a kinda hate-fucking vibe in the air- especially with how close they were, how soft their voices were. If he didn’t hear them threatening to kill one another, if he hadn’t seen the looks on their faces, shit, he’d almost mistake it as a private conversation between lovers. It was creepy- and what was creepier was that he was actually feeling a little….jealous?  
_Oh god oh god oh god no….._  
It wasn’t until Kevin came out that the tension finally broke. Sam could’ve cried from relief- he didn’t know how much more he could’ve taken of that. Dean’s attention was diverted from Meg to Kevin, his arms folding across his chest as he went into angry authoritarian mode.

“What the hell, Kevin?” Dean demanded, “You let her out? What the fuck were you thinking? She could’ve escaped, she could’ve destroyed the bunker, she could’ve killed you! What would we do then, huh? What if you died and then we couldn’t translate the tablets- do you have any idea how selfish and fucking brainless that was?”

Kevin’s nostrils flared, his whole face turning red. Of fucking course- he wasn’t worried about him- he was furious because some part of him believed that maybe Dean’s anger was over him putting himself in danger, but of course not. He was angry because he’d put the bunker at risk, because he’d put Meg in a position to escape. Oh, last and least- that he might die before the tablet was translated. God, he was seeing red.

“Because her escaping or destroying the bunker is a bigger concern to you than her killing me,” he said in a venomous tone.  
“What? No!” Dean snapped.  
“Well that’s the order It went in- things that matter to you, then last and least, my life,” he yelled, “And the only reason you care is- surprise surprise- I’m the only one you have under your big fat toad thumb who can do it!”  
“What is with you?” Dean demanded, “What did she put in your head?”

And that was enough to put him over the edge. Why did everyone treat him like he was some sort of mindless robot that just did whatever anyone told him to? He had his own thoughts, his own feelings, and he was sick of every feeling and thought he had being blamed or attributed to someone else.

“Why don’t you treat me like a person?” Kevin shouted, moving so that his chest was bumping against Dean’s sternum, pointing up in his face, “I’m not a machine! You leave me alone all the time, and when you’re not doing that, you’re always breathing down my neck, and you’re a complete dick to me! I’m working hard, okay? I’m doing my fucking best! I let Meg out because I was tired of being alone and feeling like I was totally on my own, and she’s the only person who can help me.”  
“She’s not a-“  
“Yes she is!” he yelled, shoving Dean, “She is to me and I don’t care what you say! All my life, I’ve been pushed around by guys like you, who are bigger than me, just because they thought I was some weakling, but I’m not! I’m smarter than you, I’m stronger than you think, and all of you-“ he looked at everyone in the room, “Can fuck off, because I can fight- I choose not to! I think with my brain, not my fists, something most of you don’t know how to do; and the only one who does-“ he pointed at Sam, “Is you, and it’s because you’re too scared to! I’m not some stupid little kid, I see through all of your bullshit, and I am sick of it. You wanna know what she put in my head? Exactly what I was too scared to admit, that I deserve more than what you assholes give me, that I deserve a say in all this shit, and that I’m the one who has something you need- so you can shove your shit up your ass.”

“Excuse me?” Dean demanded, his expression dark and stormy, but Kevin didn’t balk. He was done. He was so fucking over Dean and his bullshit, Sam and his bullshit, the angels and their bullshit- the whole fucking world threw a temper tantrum, so it was his turn.  
“You heard me!” Kevin snapped, “I’ve spent this whole time terrified of you, wondering when you’re gonna lock me up, afraid that you’re gonna beat the shit out of me or kill me if I don’t do what you want. But I’m not gonna let you bully me anymore. You want something from me, you ask. You treat me as an equal. I’m not a nail, Dean, people aren’t nails. You can’t just beat them down until they do what you want!”

Kevin was breathing hard, his blood roaring in his ears, adrenaline rushing like a flood. He had enough- yeah, Meg gave him the encouragement and the way, but this was all him. He was done with everyone treating him like- and implying that he was- a pawn. He wasn’t going to let them think that anymore.  
And for a moment, the storm in his mind stopped.  
_Channing would be so proud of me right now. You were right, Chan. I AM better than the crap I put up with._

Dean, on the other hand, looked sick, like he was about to throw up all over the place. His whole face was pale as he stared at Kevin, sweating like a sinner at confession. He looked like he didn’t know what to do with himself in that moment, looking from Kevin to Meg and back to Kevin, his eyes blown wide. Why would Kevin ever think he’d hurt him? Why would Kevin be afraid of him?  
Sam watched Dean, frankly amazed- did his brother feel guilty?

“That’s really what you think?” Dean asked quietly, turning back to Sam, “That if you don’t do…exactly what I want, I’ll hurt you? Is that what you think of me too?”  
“No,” Sam said quickly, examining his hands, as his mind screamed, _Yes! Because that’s what you’ve always done! You either beat the shit out of me or left me!_ But he stood silent. He wouldn’t say that out loud- he didn’t know how Dean would react. The few times that conversation had come up in passing, Dean either broke down to tears or wrecked a motel room. He wasn’t taking that chance- besides, this was about Kevin, and he clearly had it under control.  
Kevin gaped at Sam, his hands curling into fists again. Seriously? Sam was just gonna leave him hanging out on a line? It was bullshit!  
“Really?” he demanded, “Because you were the one who agreed that he’s always riding everyone, that he’s like your dad-“  
“So that’s what this is about,” Dean said sharply, seeming to recover from his momentary crisis, “You gave Kevin a boohoo sob story about Dad.”  
Of course, Sam was always harping about Dad, about what he did wrong. Now he had to go and air out their dirty laundry to Kevin. He shut down the guilty voice in the back of his head, clinging to that. That was the problem- not him. Sam’s obsession with their Dad’s less than fine qualities was the problem.  
“No!” Sam said quickly, “That’s not what I said, he just didn’t understand what I was trying to say,” Sam gave Kevin a pleading look, one that made Kevin grimace in disgust, “Tell him, Kevin!”

 _So much for the whole stand up for myself plan. Nice, great, wonderful._  
“Forget it,” he snapped, turning back to Meg, “I told you it wouldn’t make a difference. I told you this was pointless.”  
The whole time, Meg had taken a backseat, just observing this interesting little encounter. Of course, she was pissed- Dean almost saw the light, and as per usual, he turned it around on someone, and who better to turn it around on than Sam? Fucking Winchesters. But when she heard the angry defeat in Kevin’s voice, her heart twinged with sympathy- the heart that was apparently growing three sizes each day.  
_God, this is literally the worst._  
He went to shove past her, but she reached out and grabbed his arm.  
“Kevin-“  
He jerked his arm out of her grasp, glaring at her. He was done. He didn’t want to deal with this anymore. He just wanted to go to his room and sleep for like, 7 days. Maybe they’d all be gone by then, that’d be good. Or maybe he’d just never wake up. That’d be good too.  
“Just admit that you were wrong, and leave me alone,” he yelled, stomping away. He paused, turning back to face all of them, his face beet red.  
“You’re all a bunch of fucked up psychos, and I’m done dealing with you!”

She stared after him, wanting to follow, wanting to comfort him- god, what the fuck was that about- but the sound of hands clapping slowly behind her made her turn.  
_Oh no._  
 _He is not._  
She gave him the deadliest look she had, her eyes narrowing. Dean Fucking Winchester. She wanted nothing more than to rip his head from his shoulders- hell; she hated him almost as much as she hated Crowley.  
_Almost._

“I thought I’d seen the depths of your prickish ways,” she hissed, “But this is a new low, even for you.”  
Dean kept staring her down as he clapped, a nasty smirk on his face. Oh, she wanted to punch the teeth out his smug, stupid fat facehole.  
“Was this your little plan?” he asked, his hands stilling, “What, get us all fighting each other, manipulate us and escape?”  
“You condescending cunt,” she spat at him, “He’s right and you know it. All three of you know it.” She got into Dean’s personal space, staring up at him defiantly, “You’re like a fucking cult leader, Dean Winchester. It only makes sense that you would pick up your father’s mantle. No one questions. No one disobeys. They know nothing and you know everything but you don’t. You just took a boy, a boy who does everything you ask and more, who does things that you could never do, and you crushed him under your heel for daring to criticize you.”  
“Meg-“ Sam said cautiously, stepping forward, only to be cut off.  
“Don’t. Interrupt me. Sam,” she said coldly, lifting a finger to silence him as she continued to lock eyes with Dean, “Just like your daddy did to you. And I can see it in your face, Dean, it makes you feel powerful. After that sick gnawing in your belly goes away, you feel strong. And when that sick feeling starts up again, you just blame it on the easiest target in the room, because nothing you do is ever your fault. That’s the amazing thing about you-” she paused, letting out a barking laugh, “You never take responsibility for yourself, but you will think that things you never had control over were your fault. It’s pathetic, really. You’re the definition of victim complex, and the thing is, it’s really sad, but it’s really, really hilarious.”  
“Shut the fuck up,” he snapped, reaching out and punching her. Hard. She didn’t even flinch- she was ready for him this time, and this was exactly what she was waiting for, the opportunity to put him in his place. He turned back to Sam and Cas, only to be whirled around to face the demon woman once more.  
“Look at me!” she bellowed in a half-human voice, her eyes flicking black as her hand snagged out to grab his face roughly, “I can see inside you. I see the darkness inside your soul and you let it feed on everyone around you, as you drag them down into the sty of your own misery. And it gets stronger, and stronger, every time you do it. And that is what will be the ruin of every person in this room. You and your pathetic, self-fulfilling prophesies of your unending inadequacy and misery.”

Cas and Sam didn’t move, watching as Meg wrenched Dean down to her diminutive height, his hand over hers, struggling to get free. Sam moved to help Dean, but Cas caught his arm, shaking his head.  
“She doesn’t intend to hurt him,” he said softly, “She intends to make a point.”  
“She is hurting him, Cas,” Sam said, “Let go.”  
“You could free yourself easily from my grasp,” Cas said, cocking his head to the side. He was right- Sam really wasn’t being held back, and the truth was, he didn’t want to intervene. It was a little…nice, in a twisted sense, to see someone giving Dean what he dished out. God, he felt guilty.  
 _I am such a shitty brother._

They watched as she leaned over, her lips brushing against Dean’s ear.

“I’m going to tell you a little secret, Dean Winchester,” she whispered, “I don’t need to manipulate you sad bastards to escape. I am here because I want to be. That’s bad news bears for you. So don’t-“ she squeezed his jaw sharply as he winced, “Test me. I am not your friend. I am not your ally. I don’t like you. And them?” she jerked her chin to Sam and Cas, “They won’t be able to stop me. You ever touch me without my permission again, I will end you. And you will stay dead this time.”

She shoved him away, moving to stand in front of Sam, holding her wrists out.  
“Okay, now I’m ready to go back in my cage,” she said sweetly, before looking at Cas, “And you? It’d be wise for you to stay away from me.”


	11. Chapter 11

They’d been sitting in her old room in absolute silence for what seemed like hours- him just staring at her and her staring back evenly. She knew he wasn’t angry- what right did he have to be angry? He didn’t stop her. He didn’t really protest. He let it happen- and she was damn glad that he did.

The biggest problem Meg had with Dean was that she could see all of his flaws so easily, so vividly, because it felt like looking in the mirror in some ways. She saw her own childish immaturity, her own pride and anger and pain and self-loathing in the eldest Winchester, as much as it turned her stomach. She knew the kind of rage and pain that made a person like Dean, and she couldn’t help that somewhere, deep down inside, what was left of her heart ached for the child that was once Dean Winchester.  
He reminded her of Ahav as much as he did herself.

She closed her eyes, seeing Ahav’s swarthy, weather-beaten face; his skin lined with premature age. She saw the glittering obsidian of his eyes, so dull in their final days. She could almost feel his rough, heavy hand, limp and lifeless in her own slender one. Her strong, powerful husband, broken. The man she had come to love, the father of her children, a mere husk of his former glory.

She pressed her hands against her face, willing the burning in her eyes to leave, to not expose her weakness to Sam. She couldn’t let him see her weak, not again- once was enough. _Once bitten, twice shy._ She lowered her hands, forcing her expression to go blank and impassive, a mask that she had perfected over many years.

“If you’re considering lecturing me on how I treated Dean, don’t bother,” she said in a flat tone, “Even if it meant you would kill me, I would do it again.”

Lecture her for how she treated Dean- that was a joke. Even he wasn’t that much of a hypocrite- it had felt a little too good, in his opinion, when she’d taken Dean to task. It felt a little too nice to see someone else reduced to a child by the physical and mental strength of someone else. Sam never wanted to admit it, but as much as his father had made him feel small and weak, Dean had done it twice as much. It felt as if Dean had the ability to look inside Sam and see every rotten thing, every horrible thought.  
Dean could make Sam feel guilty for it raining outside. He didn’t know how he did it, he just did, and sometimes Sam wondered if Dean had done it to other people. The way so many people would just give in to him when he gave them a strong stare, like they crumpled under his gaze.

He loved his brother- words could never express just how much he loved him, how much he needed him. Dean was the only thing that never changed. Dean was his constant; his comfort, his home. Few things never changed in Sam’s life, and Dean was the one who Sam latched onto as a child. If Dean was there, then it was home. If Dean was there, it was safe. Even when it wasn’t, Dean being near him gave him a nonsensical sense of security. Yes, he might get hurt, but Dean would never let anything actually hurt him- but there had been so many times, even as a child, that that stupid idea had been proven wrong. And then, there were the times that Dean was the one who hurt him.

He knew what this feeling was, what he felt now and as a child- it was all part of it. Being hit and then the next moment having his brother holding him and hugging him, apologizing and making promises, crying like he’d been the one that was hit. The next day, the special dinner or snacks or presents. Just like their father did to Dean. Dean didn’t know any better than what he was doing. He didn’t know that what he was doing would damage the two of them irreparable. He didn’t know that every time Sam said or did anything out of turn, he was always tensed, ready to be hit. It wasn’t Dean’s fault. He wasn’t like Sam- he didn’t ever get away from Dad, he was never able to see how real relationships were supposed to work- and despite everything, he truly, deeply loved his brother.

But still, every time he saw Dean get what’s coming to him in a non-fatal way, he couldn’t help the sick twinge of satisfaction in his stomach, because he’s been there. He’s been the one with the deer-in-the-headlights look. He’s been the one who was left gutted and flopping on the floor by someone’s words. And no matter how angry seeing Dean hurt made him, there was always that tiny, itty bitty part of him that whispered _Good_.

And it’s that part of him that makes him feel guilty, that makes him feel like sometimes, hell…he probably deserved what he got from Dean, from Dad. What kind of a person feels any sort of satisfaction at seeing their own brother hurt?

It’s a vicious cycle, the same cycle when he was a child, a teenager, and still now as a man. One that he’s caught in right now, but there she is, fucking Meg, standing in the middle of it. Why is she there? Why is she intruding on this, why is she interrupting the cycle?

“Why?” Sam asked, looking at her with red rimmed eyes, “Why did you do it?”

 _This is the problem,_ she thinks, _with being inside someone._ You can suddenly read every muscle, every twitch; you can hear the echoes of their thoughts in your ears and you can read what they are thinking in a moment. And the problem with Sam is that his every thought bears down on her like a vice, a ringing in her ears that never goes away.  
Other demons liked that benefit; why they let many of their vessels live. If they get close to them, it’s an instant newsfeed, a play by play of their thoughts and feelings; things to take advantage of. Many crossroads demons had that sense heightened- they didn’t need to have worn someone to know when they were most vulnerable, most easy to swindle. But she hated it- she hated that kind of connection, that kind of bond. She rode her vessels into the dirt so she would never, ever have that bond. And yet here she is, having an instant replay of “The Cycle” as he calls it, and she can barely focus.  
Why?  
Because she was a fucking demon, and she still found Dean’s behavior abhorrent.  
Because Dean needed to learn a lesson.  
Because Sam never deserved this.  
Because Dean never deserved this.  
Because Kevin never deserved this.  
_Because my children never deserved it, either._

“Because,” she said softly, looking away, “Kevin deserves better. He’s a good kid, he deserves respect and…” her voice trailed off as her throat closed, tears rising in her eyes again, “He’s too good for this.”  
“For what?”  
She looked back at him, her eyes wet.

For what? God, he was too good for monsters and angels and demons, he was too good for hunters, he was too good for any of it. Kevin was too good. Sam was too good. Some time, long long ago, Dean was even too good. Athaliah, Joram, and Ahaziah were all too good for it, her precious children. It wasn’t fair.  
Suffer the little children- once meaning tolerate, now meaning to feel and endure pain. Once the humans, angels, even demons were called to tolerate the children, to leave them be, a protected class. But the humans never abided by it- and with time, the demons and angels cast it aside as well, in favor of the old ways. They preferred the God they knew, and the humans could never abstain from any violence that they were commanded not to commit. Children are easy to take, and to take hold of. Children are made into tyrants. Children are raised into war. Children taught to lie, to cause harm. The children of man are created; not only in birth, but through life. And that is exactly why Dean Winchester is what he is- and why she hates what he is. Because the girl from Tyre- the one weighed down with gold and silver, trapped beneath a weighted veil- cries out in pain for him inside her head. She cries because she knows what makes someone like that, not just by her own experience, but by watching him grow. Being close to Sam all his life invariably ended up meaning being close to Dean, too. Being inside Sam’s mind unlocked a gateway to Dean’s life as well. She knows what Sam’s eyes have seen, and they have seen so much. She knows what Sam’s ears have heard, and he’s heard so much.

And that’s why she hates Dean. Because the girl in her was like the boy he was. The woman in her is like the man he is. And the demon in her is exactly like his mind. She hates him because she understands him. And she understands what made him.

 _Suffer, the little children. Raised by violent hands, tempted by cruel hands, and taken by uncaring hands. That,_ she thought, _Is the greatest crime in all existence. The suffering of the children- because their suffering changes the world._

She finally found her voice, no better than a desperate croak.

“That child is too good for this world.”

Sam was knocked speechless by the look on her face, the look in her eyes. It was so honest, so…raw, the tone of her voice, so soft, as if she were trying not to cry. Meg was a mystery wrapped in an enigma to him- just a bit ago, he was sure that she would’ve crushed Dean’s skull between her bare hands without a regret, and yet now, she was brought to tears over Kevin. It was baffling; the amount of-he didn’t know what to call it- in her expression. Care? Possibly even…love? There was a lot of pain though, that much Sam could see. He didn’t understand what it was about Meg, but he could look at her and almost feel what she was feeling, like he could see something other couldn’t. Even soulless, he saw it. Like a shadow running over her features, revealing what they really were expressing. It was an odd little bond that he had to her, one he didn’t really understand but had always used to his advantage. And for the first time, her face and the shadow matched. She was really, deeply, feeling that care, that pain.

“Why do you care so much about Kevin?” he asked gently. Meg bit her lip, inhaling deeply, closing her eyes again. Because for the first time since Sam, she had felt something for a human. She had felt a connection, an understanding. A connection she couldn’t explain or even understand, but that was so strong it drew her to it like a magnet. And this connection was strong enough that it brought the faces of the dead to her mind.

“He reminds me of my children.”

If that didn’t beat all. Sam gaped at her, trying to find something to say. He knew she had children, that was what she sold her soul for- but for some reason it never really dawned on him that she was really, actually a mother; that she had raised and loved her children like any human mother would. Some part of him always imagined that she had her children and pushed them off on a nanny or something to raise them and care for them; that seemed like something she would do. The Meg he knew now would’ve done that, or so he thought. But the person she was then- _Izevel,_ not _Meg_ \- obviously wouldn’t do that. Not if she had such an intense connection with her children that she saw them in Kevin. Not if that connection was so strong that she had risked torture or death to do what she thought was right for him.

Sam knew he had a…strange relationship with mothers. He never had one, one that he knew as a child. He was never able to voice it much, but he always wanted a mother. As a kid, he knows he went searching for mothers- women who had been close enough around that he could cling to for a moment, women whose faces and names would be forgotten after a few days when they moved on to the next place. Dean always hated the women who tried to mother him; he would be as mean as he possibly could be (at that age) to them. He didn’t want another mother. He already had one, and she was gone.  
But Sam never had that connection with Mary. He never had the chance, and then he idolized her. Everything his father couldn’t do, wouldn’t do, she could and would. Everything his father did do, she would never. She was everything he needed and wanted but couldn’t have, his ideal, and he was always searching for it. Sometimes, a woman would fit some of the rules. Sometimes, she’d fit most of them. But if he encountered a woman who could fit even one of the rules, the rules that decided the ideal, he instantly connected to her in some way. Sometimes it was trust, sometimes respect, and sometimes it was lust; but he always connected somehow.  
He knew it was a little naïve, but he always trusted a woman who was a mother a bit more than anyone else, always respected them a bit more, and always wanted to please them a bit more. They all fit rule one of the ideal- mothers.

And then, there was Jody. The one who fit all of the rules.  
She was a mother. She was strong, but she was gentle. She could fight, and would fight for what she loved, who she loved. She didn’t take any nonsense, but she was never cruel. She listened. She cared. And she did all these things for him. The Perfect Ideal.

Hearing Jody tell him he did well, or hearing her worry about him made him feel wonderful, made him feel… happy. He wanted her to like him so desperately, for her to care about him, even though he tried his damndest for it to stay a secret. He wanted her because she was the _ideal_.

Yeah, it’s a bit of an understatement to say he has a weird relationship with mothers.

And it’s that weird relationship and his already weird relationship with her that’s got him sitting there in stunned silence, his mind trying to make sense of all of his emotions.

She fits most of the rules. She was a mother. She could fight, and would fight for what she loved, who she loved. She listened. She cared.

He was afraid of what that relationship was doing to him in that moment, what it was doing to his feelings, to his body. He wasn’t angry anymore, not about what she’d done, what she’d threatened to do, what she didn’t do. He didn’t hate her. He just wanted to understand her. The relatively latent physical attraction he had to her felt like it increased tenfold. He wanted to reach out to her, touch her.

The honesty, the love in her voice, for her children, sent him on a tailspin, and this is where he landed.

“You really loved them, didn’t you?” Sam asked with awe, “You…you really loved them.”

 _Oh, that hurts,_ he thought to himself.

“I would’ve died for my children,” she began, “I could not make you understand how much I loved them. I had never felt the pure joy, the beautiful anguish, and the tremendous rage of being a mother before, and I never will again. They were my paradise; they were everything I had ever loved. I loved them more than you have ever loved Dean. I loved them more than I loved any human. They are- were my children,” she said with a hollow laugh, shrugging, “They were everything.”

Their gaze was locked and Sam couldn’t help but feel this warm feeling was over him, the stark and unfiltered honesty in the statement leaving him tingling. As if she was saying it to him. As if his father were saying it to him. It was so unfamiliar that it took a moment for reality to hit him, a deep empty well opening up in his chest. His father had never said those words. His father never admitted any sort of love for them in a deep way. Part of him still childishly believed that his father loved Sam as much as Sam had loved him as a child- part of him desperately wanted to believe that his father didn’t hate him, loved him, was secretly proud of him. He dreamed of that, because his father’s actions didn’t really give him much to work with, and he was always a man of few words.  
“Did you tell them that?” he asked, “Did you tell them you loved them? Did you show them?”

Meg gave him a measured, even look.  
“Of course I did,” she said plainly, “I never wanted them to feel like objects like I did as a girl.”

Sam knew that feeling- like an object, a pawn. In fact, he felt like his whole life he was someone’s pawn, being jerked this way and that no matter what he felt or wanted. And he remembered how much he wished that someone knew how that felt, someone besides Dean. Dean didn’t get it because he became the game master when their father died. And here she is. In a demon's form. Fantastic.

“I suppose,” she said, straightening up, “That I should tell you about them- my children. After all, they are an integral part of the story- but there’s more before we come to them. After I was on the mountain with Lucifer for those days and nights, I returned, and I slept with Ahav, and I fell pregnant.”

* * *

 

Izevel looked up with excitement as the sound of carts and wagons began to fill the air, the pinprick cloud of dust now much larger, almost large enough for her to make out the figures inside. Ishah and the others looked up as well, noting the joy on the young woman’s face.  
“Do you expect something, Ize?” Nita asked, smirking, “Perhaps Ahav has brought you the sea in those wagons, like you’ve asked so many times.” Athaliah grabbed Izevel’s hand, bouncing excitedly.  
“Is that what they’ve brought, Ize?” she asked, “Will the sea really be here?” Izevel laughed, lifting Athaliah’s hand to her lips and kissing it.  
“No, my little green bee-eater,” she teased, “Your father is great and has much power, but not even he can move the sea. It is something else- something much better.”  
“Well, don’t make us wait, Ize. What could be better than your beloved sea?” Ishah said, standing next to the younger woman, excitement shining in her ringed and tired eyes. Izevel felt a jolt of joy, seeing the excitement in Ishah’s usually weary expression, happy to know that she had put it there.  
“I wrote my father,” Izevel replied, “And I asked for him to send some things for us all, gifts for the birth of Ahav’s first son. For all of you- I think you’ll all be very pleased when you see it.”

Izevel felt another surge of joy and pride, seeing the excitement in all of their faces. This was what she always wanted to be- a help, a true servant of The Lady. The Lady gave prosperity and joy to those who worshipped her, and as a servant of The Lady to do what The Lady had done in earthly ways made her feel as if she were fulfilling her destiny. And though she wouldn’t openly admit it, she also felt a great deal of joy any time she could make life easier or better for these women, her beloved companions. It was true- Ahav had told her that Tirzah would not remain their home much longer, that they would be travelling to Samaria and to the Palace that was being finished there- a lavish and expansive estate paid for greatly by the trade that had opened between Tyre and Israel at their marriage. There even awaited a temple to The Lady, just as their marriage contract had said there would be.  
Izevel patted her stomach happily, sloping outwards and very noticeable- Ishah often teased her, saying, “Here’s Ize’s belly, perhaps she will be here before sundown, if we are so lucky!”  
It had been nearly 8 moons since her return from the mountains, since the 7 days and nights that she had spent with her Lord Ba’al - and just as he promised, she was with child. Ahav’s rage was quickly forgotten, and the dead son forgotten by others just as quickly- but not by Izevel. She still mourned her dear son, her first son; and prayed that Ba’al would make this one live and live long.  
She had written to her father of the child’s still birth, but reassured him that she was once again with child. She had learned quickly from Ahav that it was best to soften the blow of tragedy with joy, and she hoped that he would fulfill her requests- which were modest, considering her rank. But the greatest of her requests was one she was dreading would not be fulfilled- the request that was selfish, that was only for her despite her pleas that it would be for her husband and his father.

Abdi Ptah, her childhood teacher and wrangler, a beloved friend and confidante even more than her handmaid Sisa, should have been on one of those wagons. It wasn’t entirely untrue, her persuasion- Abdi Ptah was one of Sidon’s most gifted scribes, and his business and political knowledge was just below that of her father’s, who had trained him personally. Abdi Ptah would be a great gift and asset to King Omri and then to Ahav, if only they could see past his status as a eunuch. He was a gift to her father from Egyptian traders; a trade for safe passage back to their homeland- the son of a shamed scribe in Egypt, sold into slavery to pay his debts. Her father saw the potential in this boy child, his quick mind and nimble hands, already well-practiced in the language of his homeland. He took the child under his wing and taught him well- of their language, their knowledge, and of The Lady. In his 14th year of life, her father had him castrated for his next duty- to serve as the tutor and guardian of Izevel and priest of The Lady. Izevel’s living memory only held Abdi Ptah as her true parent, as the man who raised her and protected her from the day she was 5 until the day she stepped foot on the ship for Ba’al’s Headland and Israel. The separation from the man who had been there every morning when she woke until she closed her eyes in the evening was so hard on her; and though she loved her new companions greatly, she longed for Abdi Ptah- his gentle rumbling voice and smooth hands, his wit and understanding. But the people of Israel looked down on outsiders and eunuchs, and she feared that this request would be denied.

Finally the carts and wagons entered the crumbling interior of Tirzah, the noise deafening as the women laid aside their work to see what exactly the Commander’s little wife had asked for from her homeland. They gasped with delight at the contents of these wagons- beautiful carved looms, fine distaffs and basket upon basket of Sidon’s finest dyes and threads along with two skilled weavers from the Temple of The Lady, to teach them the ways of weaving as they were in Sidon. The women crowded around the wagons as they halted, their fingers brushing over the finery with awe, but Izevel wasn’t interested in those gifts from her father- she was more concerned with the gift that she thought would be denied.  
She looked down the line of wagons and carts, spying the shape of a man- the one she knew well, one that she would recognize faster than the shape of her husband. Setting aside all the training she had received, casting aside all dignity, she was a child again, running for the figure.

“Abdi!” she cried out joyously, her hands waving in the air and trying to garner his attention, “Abdi! Abdi Ptah!”

The figure turned to face her as she closed in, her joy reaching new heights as she took in the familiar features of his face, throwing herself into his arms and clinging to him.  
“I was sure he wouldn’t send you,” she wept into his chest, taking in the familiar scents of the scribe; the smell of his perfume oils and incense, the comfort of his arms around her for a brief moment before he held her at arm’s length, taking her in.

“My lady! You look so…dirty,” he said with a booming laugh, lifting her hair to smell it, “And you smell like a shepherd’s daughter.”  
She let out a joyous laugh, squeezing his hand.  
“I haven’t had much time or a place to bathe,” she said sheepishly, suddenly aware of just how long it had been since she’d bathed like a princess should- not since her journey to Ba’al’s headland. Abdi Ptah wrinkled his nose as he so often did when he didn’t approve of something, making her laugh again. She hadn’t felt such joy in so long. She looked back at the women, who all still seemed taken with her gifts, all except Ishah and Athaliah.  
“Come! You must meet Ishah and Athaliah!” she exclaimed, dragging him back towards the women. He laughed again, extricating his hand from her grip.  
“Has it been so long since I have trained you that you’ve forgotten yourself?” he teased, mirth sparkling in his obsidian eyes, “A princess does not behave in such an undignified manner, and certainly not a queen.”  
“I’m not a queen, I’m a commander’s wife,” she replied before thinking, pausing and biting her lip. She had woven a very convincing tale for her father of a palace and an established kingdom, one that she realized was also told to Abdi-Ptah.  
“Then I was mistaken,” he replied, his tone becoming serious, “I told the soldiers that they must’ve taken us to the wrong place, that this couldn’t be the Tirzah that our beloved Princess Ithabaal had told us of.” She could hear the admonition in his voice, making her drop her gaze like a child caught in mischief.  
“Perhaps I made Tirzah sound…different than it is,” she said slowly, not daring to look him in the eye, “But My Lord says we will be moving to the new capital shortly, where a palace has been built along with a grand temple for The Lady,” she added hopefully. Abdi-Ptah only huffed at her response, clearly not pleased with her deception but unwilling to argue with her due to his station. She felt a twinge of unease- it had just dawned on her that now, he was not her guardian or tutor, now he was her property, and he could not so openly chastise her.  
“I am sorry,” she said in a pleading, sweet tone that she knew melted the Egyptian’s heart, “Please don’t be angry, Abdi.”  
“It is not a slave’s place to hold ill will towards his mistress,” he replied sharply leaning down to her ear, “Do not let anyone hear you speak to me so, My Lady. I am your slave. You will look weak.”  
“You are not my slave,” she whispered back, biting her lip. He gave her a reassuring smile, touching her shoulder.  
“I serve you as I have served your father. Know that it gives me great joy to be reunited with you, My Lady. I had sorely missed your light in the Temple and in the Palace.”

She reached up and touched his hand on her shoulder briefly, her eyes shining with gratitude and happiness. That was his way of reassuring her, reminding her that though their relationship was special, he understood and expected her to treat him as her father treated him- with dignity and respect, but as a servant no less. She nodded before turning and waving her hand.

“Come, Abdi,” she said in an authoritative voice, “I wish for you to meet My Lord’s family.”  
“Yes, My Lady,” he said dutifully, following a few steps behind her. As they approached, Athaliah hid behind Ishah’s skirt, looking up at the tall Egyptian with awestruck and fearful eyes. Izevel smiled, remembering how large and frightening Abdi Ptah looked to her when she was Athalia’s age, so unlike most other Eunuchs- men with pot bellies, wide hips and sagging breasts. Her father had often commented his approval of Abdi Ptah’s refusal to allow his body to become such, often helping to train and exercise with her brothers, not indulging in the rich foods that the other Eunuchs, like her step mother’s, so often did. He still looked very much a man, and unless one saw him disrobed, one wouldn’t know that he was a Eunuch. It was no true secret within the palace walls that her father had often laid with Abdi Ptah, taking his carnal pleasure from her Egyptian tutor as often as he employed him as a scribe; things that were not spoken of but generally accepted. After all, her father was king, and as king, he could take what he pleased from his slaves and his women. Izevel often wondered if Abdi Ptah’s insistence on remaining firm and supple was truly rooted in his fear that should he become unappealing that he would be sent from the palace to the temple, as had happened with any other eunuch who had displeased her father and was disliked by her step mother; and there were few slaves who earned her step mother’s ire as strongly and as often as Abdi Ptah did. Perhaps, Izevel thought to herself, it was because the tall Egyptian’s company was preferred over hers by all of her children and her husband, or perhaps it was because even as a eunuch, he was given great respect and power within the royal household.

Izevel gestured to Abdi Ptah with a smile.  
“Do not be afraid, Athaliah,” she crooned sweetly, trying to comfort the girl and coax her forward, “This is my tutor that I told you about, Abdi Ptah. He is the one who taught me the stories you so love.” Ishah smiled, tossing her hair.  
“So you have brought a slave to do your work for you, Ize?” she teased gently, “And after how long it took to teach you just how to card wool…”  
Izevel blushed, shaking her head.  
“Oh no, that’s not why I asked for him to come,” she said, looking back at him, “Abdi Ptah is one of my father’s best scribes, well versed in not only my home language, but yours and many others as well. He will be quite an asset to King Omri and Our Lord Ahav.”  
“Surely you could have sent for him once we had travelled to Samaria,” Ishah replied, raising an eyebrow, “I am afraid there is not much need for a scribe here.”  
“If I am permitted to speak, My Lady,” Abdi Ptah said politely, his head bowed in deference.  
“You are,” Izevel said quickly, nodding. Abdi Ptah lifted his head, his dazzling white smile clearly calming the older woman.  
“I can be of great use in many ways. I am strong and have tended animals before, I can reap and sow, and I have been taught the healing arts of My Lady’s homeland,” he said, “I assure you, I would never be a burden. To be so would bring great shame. I am at the service and will of My Lady and you as well, should My Lady permit it.”  
“Does the lady permit it?” Ishah asked, giving Izevel a questioning look. Izevel grinned back, nodding.  
“Of course!” she said happily, looking back at Abdi Ptah, “I expect you to follow Lady Ishah’s orders as you would my own.” Abdi Ptah bowed to both of them, winking at Athaliah and making her giggle before straightening up.  
“Yes, My Lady,” he said before looking back at the carts, “Would it please My Lady for me to help unload the carts? I will ensure that your gifts are well taken care of and brought to you.”  
“That won’t be necessary,” Ishah said authoritatively, “The gifts shall remain in the cart until we move for Samaria. There’s little use or practicality in unloading them now. Athaliah, show Abdi Ptah the jugs and the fountain to fetch water. His time would be put to better use there.”  
“Yes, Lady Ishah,” Abdi Ptah said, bowing to her before turning to Athaliah, who seemed a bit reluctant to leave the safety behind her mother.  
“But Mama,” Athaliah began to argue, before catching the look on her mother’s face. She quickly closed her mouth and gestured for the older man to follow her.  
“This way,” she chirped, her mother’s admonishing glance already forgotten. Ishah turned back to Izevel, her arms folded and her expression stormy.  
“Does Ahav know that your father has sent you a man slave?” she demanded, grabbing Izevel’s wrist and pulling her into a small alcove.  
“No, but I-“  
Ishah reached out and slapped Izevel sharply, grabbing her arms and shaking her.  
“How could you, you stupid girl!” she hissed, “Have you no respect for our husband? Were you taught nothing?”

Izevel pulled away from the older woman, cradling her reddened cheek in her hand and fighting back the tears that stung her eyes.  
“I don’t understand,” She said, her voice trembling. Ishah let out a loud bark of a laugh, her hands on her hips.  
“You don’t understand, how unsurprising,” she snapped, “You bring this man slave into our home, you are friendly with him and his use is of no use here, how do you think that will look to our Lord? To his father? You may have just killed that man with your idiocy.”  
“I still don’t understand,” Izevel replied, her voice weak- she had become strong and firm with everyone but Ishah since her time with Ba’al Shamem on the mountain. Ishah had taken her under her wing, had taught her and cared for her since she came to Tirzah, and the love that grew between them often made Izevel forget that the older woman hadn’t birthed and raised her from infancy.

“You know what some say of your people,” Ishah whispered, “That you lie with each other in temples worshiping demons, that men spill their seed in unholy meetings with other men, that there are slaves meant only for the sexual gratification of their masters. I do not know if such things are true, but one wrong move and you can get us all killed.”  
Izevel blinked for a moment, unsure of why Ishah had brought up the sordid rumors of her home land- few of which were true, and those that were only held a shred of truth. It finally dawned on her, and she let out a high pitched, hysterical giggle, clapping her hands on her mouth.

“Ishah,” she began, still fighting giggles, “He does not possess what makes a man.”  
“What?” the older woman demanded, squinting at her. Izevel couldn’t contain her giggles any longer, bending double as she laughed.  
“A eunuch,” she gasped as her laughter died away, “Abdi Ptah is a eunuch.”  
It was Ishah’s turn to blink rapidly, her head cocking to the side.  
“He is a eunuch?”  
“Yes!” She laughed loudly, “And even if he were not, he is my mentor and a Priest of the Lady. I would never make him breach his oath of purity to the Goddess, not as a High Priestess. It would be wrong.”  
“You are no high priestess,” Ishah said, her nose wrinkling.  
“Yes I am,” Izevel argued, “My father is a High Priest to Ba’al, and as his only daughter, I am High Priestess to Astarte. That is our custom,” she gave Ishah a sly grin, “Along with lying in temples to demons.” Ishah sighed, shaking her head.  
“That does not mean anything here, Izevel, how many times must I remind you?” Ishah scolded, her hands on her hips, “The Gods of your lands are not here, and many do not welcome them either. As Our Lord’s wife, you must let go of those customs and Gods and accept his God.”  
“YHWH,” she scoffed, “The God of war and bloodshed, the Fear of Isaac. How am I to worship a God who does nothing but bring suffering? How am I to worship the God who took my son?”  
“Quiet yourself!” Ishah hissed, “There are ears everywhere.”  
“Let them hear!” she shouted haughtily, “YHWH did not grant me this child, the God of Thunder and Fertility granted me this child! Ba’al granted me this strong child!”  
She yelped as Ishah slapped her again, clutching her cheek.  
“You are brash, girl!” Ishah snapped, making Izevel lower her eyes. Only when Ishah was truly angry did she address Izevel as ‘girl’- she knew that she had pushed her husband’s first wife to her breaking point.  
“I speak the truth!” She whimpered, cringing in fear of Ishah striking her again, but instead she only saw sadness lining her face, making her look old.  
“The truth,” she said softly, “Is that in YHWH’s land, many worship your gods. My gods as well. But here in Tirzah, we are not so free to do so- King Omri worships only YHWH, as does Our Lord Ahav…they don’t even worship YHWH’s Asherah. They do not understand that a warrior God cannot sustain a nation. But as the wives of Our Lord, it is our duty to worship his God, to give credit and blessings to his God, and if we are sure we are alone, only then may we worship ours. But be careful what you say. When we go to Samaria, they will not be as kind as those here and not nearly as many will worship the same gods as you.”  
Ishah raised an eyebrow, looking around.  
“Now, until we go to Samaria, you will put Abdi Ptah to work with the shepherds, and he shall stay with them. We wish to keep him as far from us as possible. We tell no one- absolutely no one- that he is a eunuch, not until he has established himself as an asset to Our Lord Ahav.”  
“Won’t he be angry-“  
“Abdi Ptah does not look like one, and it will be a fact easily concealed from eyes outside the palace. And you said he is a priest, did you not? Your temple shall be erected by then. If Our Lord is displeased, he will not want to upset you, not when you will give him a son. So he will send him to the Temple. Once that child is born a boy, we will be out of danger. But not until then.”  
Ishah let out a rattling gale of coughs, bending double with her hands on her knees. Izevel rushed to her with worry- Ishah’s coughing fits had become harder and stronger since the day she first met her, sometimes becoming so bad that she would nearly faint where she stood. She was not the only one- a few of the Shepherds, women, and soldiers had the cough as well, and many children had been taken during the night when the cough could not be calmed. Her heart squeezed with fear for the woman- if her brashness did not get Ishah killed, she feared that perhaps the cough would.  
“Ishah,” Izevel whispered worriedly, pulling the older woman’s hair back from her face and rubbing her back gently, “It’ll be alright, just breathe…”  
Ishah’s coughing finally slowed as she straightened up, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand and hurriedly running it on the underside of her dress.  
“Don’t fuss so,” she said in a raspy voice, “It’s nothing but a cough. I’ve had it since I was a girl.”  
“But it’s getting worse,” Izevel argued, looking at the red smears on her lips, “And it brings up blood!” Ishah shook her head, lifting her skirt to scrub her lips.  
“Tell no one,” she whispered desperately, “Please, Ize. Ahav…”  
Izevel shook her head, taking Ishah’s hands.  
“If you keep my secret, I will keep yours,” she said firmly, “I will not betray you.” Ishah nodded weakly, giving her a thin smile.  
“You’ll make a good queen,” she said softly, brushing some hair out of Izevel’s face, “A much better one than I could ever be.”  
“Ishah...” Izevel began, only to feel Ishah’s finger press against her lips, quieting her. She stared at the older woman for a moment, taking in this strong, incredible being that stood before her. She bit her lip, understanding what Ishah wanted without her having to speak. It was one of many secrets that they had shared, but this one left a bitter taste in the young woman’s mouth.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it took so long to update, I've been ill as of late but I hope to have a second chapter up very soon. Thank you all for your patience!

“For all of humanity’s advances in medical knowledge, she was dying of something that even today, your doctors can’t cure,” she said, breaking the spell that her story seemed to have cast over Sam. Sam blinked sharply, looking at her curiously. Diseases, those were things he rarely thought about- actual diseases, not the worry that Dean won’t be able to outrun a monster between his old smoking habit and the whole lotta nothing he did when he could. Actual illnesses that were the boogeymen in normal people’s lives; cancer, AIDS, heart disease, normal stuff; those were things that barely crossed his mind, at least not about himself. Hell, the only reason it was even a concern with Dean was because of that fucking rugaru, leaving Dean for weeks with a heart so weak that getting excited over pie could’ve killed him. The way he figured, something a lot bigger, scarier, and more decisive than mutated cells or a super virus was going to get his ass, so why bother thinking about it?  
But the more he thought about it, the more he realized that he and just about everyone else took the idea of doctors and medicine for granted. If he had a broken arm, or a bad cut, or a burn or even a gunshot wound, he could have a doctor fix it and he would recover. But in her time, biblical times? A bad cut could mean losing a limb, or even death in the right conditions.

“What did she have?” he asked.  
“Tuberculosis, as best as I can figure,” she replied, “When she had been married to Ahav about 13 years before, she’d been told the same thing I was- Tirzah would only be temporary, just until they won the war, just until they had the materials to rebuild, just until Omri’s marriage negotiations’ for my hand had finished; always “just until”. Just like you and Dean.”  
“What?” Sam demanded, “What are you talking about?”  
“It’s always ‘just until’, isn’t it?” she said, laughing, “Just until you find dad. Just until you kill Azazel. Just until you get Dean out of the deal. Just until you stop the apocalypse. Just until you get your soul back, just until you kill Dick, just until you close the gates of hell. Just until, just until, just until Samaria.”

His head was spinning, the truth in her words hitting him like a ton of bricks. She was right- every time the situation had changed; something in him always whispered that ‘just until’. Like he was reassuring himself that there was an end to this. That’s what the Trials were- they were supposed to be his last ‘just until’, the ones that ended it all. He never wanted to admit that this life…it was forever. He didn’t choose it, but he also couldn’t leave it.  
“What do you mean, just until Samaria?” he asked, confused. Meg laughed in a cold, empty way, sending a jolt of sadness through Sam. He heard her laugh like that so often- he actually couldn’t remember a time that he’d heard her genuinely laugh.

“That was the cruelest irony of it. She died on the road to Samaria. The city she’d been promised at 13, one that she had waited so patiently for, the last ‘just until’; and her body just couldn’t hold on. She was so young- just barely 26, she had lived so much and yet so little. 26 today, that’s just the beginning of life to you, but it was the end of hers. She lived 26 years of ‘just until’, and then,” she paused, snapping her fingers, “It was over. Just like that.”

She leaned back against the headboard of the bed, playing with the hem of his shirt, the one she was wearing. For some reason, the stupid thing was almost comforting, as if a fucking piece of fabric could be comforting; but if Sam demanded she take it off then and there, she would’ve refused. It was her armor at the moment- the fact that worn, faded cotton was what she was trying to hide inside of at that moment made her feel human; too human, uncannily human. She couldn’t hide inside her mind- it was too busy being trapped in the pain of those moments, in the pain of her loss eons ago. She couldn’t run away from him, because she knew he would follow her. She was trapped, and that worn fucking cotton shirt was her last defense.

“Meg?”  
She looked over at him, seeing the concern on his face, wanting to slap it away. Her eyes travelled down his careworn features, childishly innocent eyes set in deep circles like bruises, the hollowed out places in his face betraying what Sam simply couldn’t see- there was something wrong, deeply wrong, and he had no idea because all he ever knew was this sort of thing. She wished that she could say that he’d known love, known gentleness, but the truth was he’d had so little of it. Dean was just a child himself, how was he supposed to always be patient, always be gentle? And now, all Sam knew was pain and sickness.  
Her eyes travelled down further, resting on his neck, the thrum of his blood under his skin. What made him live, and what she craved so badly she could almost smell it through his skin.

It would make her feel, make her hurt more, but it released her. No longer was there this deep pit of emptiness, of loss inside her; no longer was there nothing to do to help, to relieve the pain even if it was just for a moment. The blood, his blood, for whatever reason, destroyed the carefully constructed control she had over herself. It let everything out from inside her. It purged her in a way that she would never allow herself to otherwise, and it left her to feel, really feel that pain. It fucking hurt, but in the most addicting way for a demon.  
Especially one left with her memories, with her emotions.

She remembered only a few nights ago, when he said those cursed fucking words, when he’d tried to comfort her. She remembered the way his body crushed hers against him, trying to still the storm of her pain. She remembered his hands holding out that syringe, and her knocking it from his hands.

And she remembered moments after he left, diving to the floor, franticly digging the needle into her arm, slamming the plunger like she was giving herself an epi-pen instead of shooting up human blood. She remembered curling into a small ball, sobbing so hard she thought her ribs would snap and her body would cave in. She remembered clutching at the floor desperately, as if she could burrow through the concrete, away from this pain- this horrific, crushing, pain.

Then, the silence. The stillness in her body, the quieting of her soul. There were no more tears to burn her cheeks- there was only emptiness, silence of her thoughts and memories. Suddenly, there was beautiful nothing.  
It was the closest thing to peace she could ever find.

She remembered Ezekiel trying to wheedle her, beating her, threatening her life, and through it all, there was a sense of quiet inside her. The only sound in her mind was her own voice on repeat.

_Kill me. Kill me. Kill me before this feeling leaves, please, kill me._

She hated his blood, but god, she needed it.

“You have to wonder… what kind of God creates a world full of so much pain?” she asked softly, “Why would you make something just to break it? Why would He create a world, a universe, full of such suffering? When I was alive, we believed that the Gods created us, but didn’t meddle in our affairs. They did as they pleased, whether it benefitted us or destroyed us. We were simply a byproduct of their creative exploits; it was easy to accept that our suffering was simply due to disinterest. But Ahav’s people, with their one God…one God who demanded prayers and sacrifice, praise as their creator; a god they could pray to and he would listen; and yet, he rarely answered, leaving so many to die in his name without one shred of notice. When you have a god like that, you can’t help but wonder…is he truly good?”  
Sam didn’t say anything, unsure of how he actually felt about God. Part of him clung to his childhood beliefs, that God was benevolent and loving, that he loved his creation; but it felt as if time and time again, he was shown otherwise. Cas’s search for his father, the chaos in heaven, the fact that he was nowhere to be found when his sons were about to destroy humanity… he may’ve wanted to believe in a good, kind God, but it was getting harder and harder. She had a point, but she forgot one thing.

“God didn’t make this world, didn’t make all this evil,” Sam said quietly, “We did. We blame him because it’s easier that way. Then we don’t have to face the truth.”

“And what truth is that?”

“I’ve spent my whole life trying to save people, trying to save humanity from monsters and demons,” Sam began, “ And I’ve learned that as horrible as monsters can be, as evil as demons are, nothing terrifies me more than people. Werewolves don’t rape. Ghosts don’t beat their families. Vampires don’t sneak into beds at night and press pillows to the faces of their children. Ghouls don’t gun down innocent people who are just going about their days. Monsters, in all of their evil, all of their violence, don’t do those things.  
Every day, I search through news archives for cases, and every day I have to decide if I want to blame that evil on the supernatural, or if I can really stomach the thought that flesh and blood humans have done such horrible things. I have to decide if I can actually accept that in a world where ‘true’ evil exists, that these evils have nothing to do with them. That these evils have human faces. Like the Benders- they were people, just people. But the things that they did to other humans, did to each other was so inhuman, so atrocious. I saw evil, trapped in that cage, watching what they did to the others who were trapped with me. I saw the most terrifying evil in existence- evil I couldn’t explain or understand. Living, breathing, flesh and blood evil. Dean says that monsters he gets, but people are crazy. The terrifying thing is, I have to agree with him. That evil doesn’t come from external forces. It comes from inside.  
The truth is, we created this world. And we can’t blame God for that, no matter how much we want to.”

Sam rubbed his mouth, shaking his head.

“My father once told me that the world, life, even the fight against evil was all a joke. He stood over me while I laid curled in a ball on a dirty motel floor, praying that he was done, spilling his truth to me. That’s the thing that I don’t think Dean will ever understand about our father. He didn’t fight because it was right; he didn’t fight to save the world because he thought he could save it. He fought because it was in his nature to be violent, because it came from inside him. He didn’t want to control that violence. He wanted to unleash it on anything he could- monsters, demons, me and Dean. He couldn’t- wouldn’t- hold in that part of him. Dean hated that I didn’t seem to care as much as he did that Dad died, went to hell for him. I made myself cry, made myself mourn, but I didn’t feel anything but relief. Because I knew what Dean didn’t- I knew that he had made that hell. He’d chosen it, chosen that evil inside himself. Why should I really cry for him, when he’d simply gotten what he’d wanted all along?”

“You shouldn’t,” Meg whispered, “Never cry for those who get exactly what they asked for.”

He noticed the fixed gaze she had on his throat, realizing that he hadn’t fulfilled his part of the deal- his blood. She didn’t want it last time- she’d slapped it out of his hand, screamed at him, and forced him out. Did she even use it? He didn’t know, but she hadn’t asked for it, so it slipped his mind.

“Do you need it?” he asked, “I have a syringe-“  
“No,” she snapped, “Not yet. After this. I won’t finish this part if you give it to me now, and this part is important.”

* * *

  
Izevel barely managed to hold in the tears that wanted to escape her as the carts slowly bumped along, jostling her painfully every few seconds. But it wasn’t just the physical pain- it was the pain of leaving so many of the women she had come to love so much behind in Tirzah. Like Nita, who was the reason that she had met Ba’al. She was much too old to make the journey, and nothing waited for her in Samaria- she had laid her sons and husband in the ground of Tirzah, and she would remain there until she joined them. The only two of her friends that came were Tamar and Leeba; their husbands marching with Ahav as they walked behind the wagon with Abdi Ptah, chatting and laughing. Abdi Ptah had found a place of admiration by all the women of Tirzah for his skills in healing and herbs and his quick wit, and Izevel couldn’t help but smile a little as she heard their voices rise in laughter.

The heat that day was so heavy and oppressive; the kind of heat that sucked the very life from your bones, and even despite the pain, Izevel could barely keep her eyes open. In fact, the only thing that kept her awake besides the pain was the gurgling, wheezing breaths that Ishah was barely taking. Athaliah was sound asleep against her shoulder; Tamar’s son Binyamin’s sleeping head in her lap. She took Ishah’s hand in hers, rubbing the back of it soothingly.  
“The air In Samaria will do you good,” she said softly, squeezing her beloved friend’s now frail hand gently.  
“That’s what they say about every new place,” Ishah wheezed slowly, not opening her eyes, “The air here will do you good, the air there will be easier to breathe. The air in Samaria is the same air in Tirzah.”  
“How do you know? Have you been there?” Izevel demanded, “You need to keep your spirits up, Ishah. Things will be better in Samaria.”  
Ishah let out a wet, crackling laugh, shaking her head.  
“Ever a child, aren’t you?” she asked, the words sounding as if each had taken all of her energy to say, “Samaria, Tirzah, it’s all that same. My spirit is tired, Izevel.”  
Izevel shook her head, picking up a scrap of cloth and dipping it in the water jar, dabbing her forehead, face, and neck with it. She couldn’t stand to see Ishah, the only woman who she could ever truly call mother, suffering in silence as she so often did. She remembered the terror that seized her when she saw Ishah’s steps falter as she gasped for air, the first day of the journey. She was terrified that her beloved friend had died as her body folded, falling to the unmerciful earth without warning. She flew from the wagon as fast as she possibly could with her swollen belly, screaming for help.  
“Ishah, please, help!” she’d screamed, stumbling to the hard, burning earth next to her. Her breath was so shallow, coughing and sputtering every few second, her lips stained red.

“Don’t say things like that,” she said sharply, biting her lip, “Bad thoughts bring bad things.”

Ishah looked away, batting at her hand. Izevel wouldn’t be deterred, dodging her weak hand and continuing to dab at her tacky skin. Ishah let out a rattling sigh, staring out at Tamar and Leeba.

“I will not see Samaria,” she murmured, “I am glad you will have them, to take care of you. You can barely take care of yourself.”

Izevel’s whole body shook violently, squeezing her hand. She was terrified- terrified to lose this woman; this incredible woman who had given her more in a years’ time than any other woman had her entire life. She was terrified of being alone without her.

“I don’t need them to take care of me,” she said, “I have you.”  
“You will not have me for long,” Ishah replied, reaching up to touch the younger woman’s cheek with her work-calloused fingers, “You must take care of my Athaliah..”  
Izevel clutched Ishah’s hand against her cheek, crying like a waterfall.  
“Don’t say that, Ishah. Athaliah needs you, you have to stay strong for her.”  
“I have been strong for so long, Ize. I have been strong since I was a girl- I was strong when I birthed three dead children, I was strong when two more fled me in blood. I was strong when Ahav shunned my body, my affection, for a new girl-child wife. I was strong when you couldn’t be. There is no more strength left in me.”  
She looked up into Izevel’s red eyes, tears like torrents running down her cheeks. She slid her hand from her grip, laying it on her great belly, stroking it gently.  
“He is strong,” she whispered, looking up at her with a smile, “A life for a life, child. That is the way of the world. As my life goes out, so shall his begin, and I bless him for it- may he live his life better, longer than I have lived mine. I bless him by YHWH, by his Asherah. I bless him by Ishtar; I bless him by Ba’al, by Astarte. The gods bless him to be strong, to be the first of many. I bless him so.”

She struggled upright, bending down to press a tender kiss to the swell of her belly, her lips leaving a small red stain. She crawled to Athaliah’s sleeping form, kissing her head, stroking her hair.

“My precious child, my beloved daughter,” she whispered, “Light of my life, do not cry for me, but rejoice for your new brother, for a new mother. I bless you, my sweet lamb, with strength and courage, with a great heart that will not wither as mine has. I bless you to love and be loved.” She smiled sadly, pressing her face to her child’s cheek, tears slipping down her cheeks.  
“Take care of Ize, my baby,” she said with a soft laugh, “Don’t let your father forget me, remind him in everything of me. That is my curse upon him, and my blessing to you.”

She crawled back, sitting upright next to her and leaning on her shoulder. She tangled her fingers in the younger woman’s, her eyes closed. Izevel looked over at Athaliah as she stirred, and suddenly Ishah’s hand was clawing at her arm. Athaliah sat up, rubbing her eyes, shoving away Binyamin. And Izevel didn’t know what to do, expect for clutch at her hand.

There was a crackle, sputtering gasps, and then a great exhale. Her hand went limp. Her body slumped. And Izevel’s blood ran cold.

“Imma?” Athaliah whimpered, crawling closer, “Imma…wake up!”  
Izevel let out a wailing sob, hugging Ishah’s head against her chest as Athaliah coiled her arms around both her mother and Izevel.  
“Imma!” she wailed, “Imma, Imma, wake up!”

The carts jerked to a stop when they heard their wails and cries, the sound of feet slapping against the hard ground, horrified gasps and cries. Ishah, strong Ishah, she was gone.  
The world had stopped, and two orphaned girls clutched to their mother, their cries rising to heaven in chorus with her sisters.

“Ishah!” Tamar wailed, clutching Leeba who was weeping, “Oh Lady, oh bless her!” They held each other up, their wounded bleats echoing across the rocky earth. If there had ever been a more adored, more loved woman, Izevel had never heard of her. It felt like the earth itself had gone quiet and still in grief for this one woman.  
Abdi-Ptah jumped up into the wagon, taking Ishah’s hand in between his, closing his eyes. He dropped his head, reaching out to touch her sallow cheek, his eyes red.  
“Oh, Lady Ishah, how I will miss you,” he whispered as Athaliah threw herself into his arms, sobbing.  
“She can’t be dead!” she cried, “Abdi, she can’t be dead! Ize, make her wake up!”  
“Child, your mother is dead,” Abdi-Ptah said gently, holding her in his strong arms, “Quiet your grief, sweet one. She walks in the afterlife.”  
“Don’t say such things to the child!” Tamar snapped, wrenching Athaliah from Abdi-Ptah, “You, with your false gods!”  
“I meant no disrespect,” Abdi-Ptah said hesitantly, “I –“

He could not finish his sentence before Izevel gasped, grabbing Tamar’s arm as a gush of fluid escaped her body, wetting the furs between her legs.  
Her water broke, her son was coming, Ishah lying dead next to her. A moment before, the earth was still, and now it felt as if it were spinning out of control. She was Ahav’s only wife. She was Athaliah’s mother. She was about to be a mother of her own child. Ishah was dead. Ishah was gone.

_A life for a life, child. That is the way of the world. As my life goes out, so shall his begin, and I bless him for it._

Her body trembled as she covered her face, the truth of it rattling her to her core. A life for a life.

“The baby is coming,” she gasped, “She...she told me-“ she let out a low moan as a contraction pulsed through her, her grip tightening. A life for a life.

“Leeba!” Tamar yelled, “Get the men! You, slave, lead them, put up a small tent. We stop here for the night- send someone to Ahav! Tell him of Ishah!” She glared as Leeba stared at her in a daze, waving her hand at her.  
“Well? Go, go!” she shouted, grabbing Abdi-Ptah’s arm and shoving him out, “What are you waiting for? Make haste!”

Everyone was running and moving, Tamar guiding Izevel out of the wagon, pulling her by her arm and walking her. It wasn’t like last time- there was no blood rushing forth from her body, the pain a mere pinprick compared to her first. Tamar had none of the gentleness and warmth that Ishah had to temper her harshness; instead treating Izevel like a beast of burden that she had to coax a valuable breedling from.

“Walk, Ize, walk,” she commanded sharply, her rough hands pushing against her back, propelling her in motion. When it became too much, Tamar shook her head, allowing her to rest, as if she were disappointed at her weakness. She got down on her hands and knees to relieve the pain, to rest, coated in dirt as animals milled about nearby. She grunted and heaved like a beast, shaking her head as sweat drenched her body. Their stench, the stench of unwashed, sweating bodies, of her own unwashed body filling her nose and suffocating her. She had never felt less human than she did in those few hours. Leeba knelt next to her as Tamar barked orders over their heads, stroking his greasy hair from her face.

“You will be fine,” she whispered soothingly, “This is normal, sister. I have prayed to the Gods and they will not abandon you.” She squeezed Izevel’s hand gently, placing a soft kiss on her temple as a low moan escaped her, “Be strong, Ize, be strong for Ishah.”  
Izevel nodded, biting her lip hard enough to draw blood. There was pain, yes, but less pain than she expected- more than anything, she was seized with fear. Her body trembled and shook as Leeba tried to comfort and distract her.  
“Tell me of your homeland,” Leeba asked, “Come, let’s walk and you can tell me the stories that you tell around the fire. The story of Anat and Ba’al.”  
She pulled Izevel to her feet, putting her arm around her frail shoulders.  
“Athaliah,” she called out, “Come girl, help your mother bring forth your brother! Help her walk.”  
Between Athaliah and Leeba, she managed to stumble in circles, her whole body aching with exhaustion.  
“Come now, Ize, tell us,” Leeba huffed, “Tell us the story, amuse us, won’t you? Cheer your daughter. Your stories are so beautiful.”  
“I cannot,” Izevel moaned, “Ishah warned me against it, I cannot.”  
“Please,” Athaliah begged, “Tell me the story of Anat and Ba’al?”  
Izevel let out a barking laugh, shaking her head.  
“I will tell you the story when Ba’al keeps his promise to me.”

Before long she was standing on the blocks, Abdi-Ptah’s strong chest replacing the comfort of Ishah’s bosom, his great hands replacing her slender ones. He coaxed and comforted her in her mother tongue, in his mother tongue, promising her that all would be well, that she would bring forth a king. She had no such illusions- until she heard the cry of her child, she would not let herself hope.

She gasped, pushing, pushing, a great wind gusting through the tent, blowing the flaps open. She looked up to meet glowing eyes, the shadow of broken wings flickering in the light of the sunset. She could see the smirk on his lips as he watched her strain and grunt, her whole body tensing and relaxing in time with the commands of her midwives.

It was him, Ba’al, watching as she twisted and writhed, gasping and panting.  
“Let him live,” she moaned, staring at him, “Let him live.”  
“Keep pushing, Ize!” Tamar cried out, “That’s it, that’s it!”

She watched as he nearly glided in front of her, kneeling down next to Tamar. Tamar couldn’t see him, didn’t feel his presence, but Izevel did, straight to the core of her being. Like lightning. He stared up at her with beautiful glowing eyes, eyes of colors and hues she could never describe, eyes that saw her very soul. She shuddered, her grip tightening so hard on Abdi-Ptah’s wrist that her nails left crescent shaped cuts in his golden skin. She was in awe, filled with hope and terror as this great being knelt in front of her.

“Do you truly want him?” he asked with a cruel smile, “Do you want this child?”  
“Yes,” she cried, “Yes, give me a healthy son, please, my Lord!”  
He rested his shining hands against her stomach, his jaw tightening. Suddenly, a horrific pain tore through her from his hands, making her body bow in immense pain.  
“Will you suffer, Ithabaal?” he asked in a light tone, “Will you bear unspeakable pain for him? He is strong, but he is mine. He comes forth only if I wish it, and I do not wish it yet.”

A pained, terror-filled scream tore from her body as horror crossed Tamar and Leeba’s faces. They too were in mortal terror- would she die? Would the child die? Would they be slain to satisfy Ahav’s rage, without Ishah to stay his hand?

“He stalls and rests strangely,” Tamar whispered, her voice trembling, “He will not come forth.”  
“From your lips to YHWH’s ears,” Leeba hissed, “Do not speak it! You will curse him!”  
“It cannot be helped,” Tamar shot back, “We may have to split her, to save the child.”  
“Let her try!” Abdi-Ptah argued, “If you split her, she will surely die.”  
“A wife is nothing compared to a son!” Tamar argued, “You do not understand what is at stake. Ishah is not here to quell his rage, he will take our heads if this child does not live. Ahav will find another wife, but he needs a son now.”  
“Tamar-“  
“You will not address me so casually, slave!” Tamar spat, pointing the knife at him, “Do not be foolish, either of you! A son will save us from war. A son will save our land, save our skins from his rage. A wife will do nothing but warm his bed. Sons are worth more than gold and silver, more than even land. If we must split her, we will- she is strong. Have you so little faith in her strength that you believe she will die? She will not die, and if she does, she is as weak.”  
“A moment more, Tamar,” Leeba begged, “Do not split her yet, let her try.”

Ba’al looked up at Izevel, another smirk crossing his lips.  
“Do you hear these words, Izevel?” he asked, “Your life is worth nothing to these people. You are worth only what lives inside you. Have you learned yet that only I, your master, care for you? Only I, your master, can bring you joy and happiness? You shunned me for these women. You doubt me, refusing me until I were to satisfy what you perceive as your right. You refused to tell my story, you worshipped their YHWH, even if it were false; when it is I who gave you this son. Yet do I strike you down? Do I rip your child from your womb? No. For I am a forgiving master, a loving master. I understand that you shall make a fool of yourself, that you will turn away from me in fear. Prove to me that I am not a foolish master, for forgiving your transgressions. Show me what you are willing to give for this child that you will hold high in my glory.”

“Please, please,” she cried, “My son.” He looked unmoved, raising an eyebrow at her as she felt more pain radiating through her core.  
“Why do you beg?” he asked, “Why do you beg me when you refused me? Why do you beg when you let false praises for my enemy fall from your lips? Why should I give to you when you do not give to me?”  
“I am sorry, My Lord,” she whispered, “Please, have mercy on my son. Do not punish him for his blasphemous mother.”  
“Do you truly blaspheme? I think not, Ithabaal,” he said softly, “I see into the heart of you. You believe in me, you love me. Why do you hide this? Never again will you hide it. You must walk in my name and glory for all to see. I am your master; no man or God can replace me. You are Ithabaal, no matter what name these people christen you with. You are my woman. Do not anger me by denying me again. I am kind. I am forgiving. But I offer forgiveness only once.”  
“Yes, please,” she murmured, “Give me my son, I will never deny you.”  
“Look at me, Iana,” he commanded, his glittering blue eyes boring into hers. He pressed his hands against her stomach, making her feel like her being was being ripped in two, crying frantically.

“His leg! It has come first- he is a footling!”

Izevel tried to look down, but Ba’al grabbed her face, forcing her to meet his eyes. He was in control of that moment- he held life and death in his beautiful hands, and he wanted her to know it intimately. The child was his. The child would not live unless he chose it.

“Look at me,” he commanded once more, “Do not listen to them, what do their words mean? Are they your master? No. I am. He will live, but only if you look at me. Look not to the mortals. Look only to me, for all things. The love of mortals is fickle, but my love is everlasting.”

They shouted, she felt their hands on her body, but everything seemed to have stopped for the second time that day. All that existed was her, Ba’al, and her son, fighting for his life. His eyes stared into her, into the deepest part of her being, reminding her of what she had given him, what he would have in exchange for this child and any others.  
“A life for a life, Ithabaal,” he said, “You have made your offering, but do you think it truly enough? Do you believe that all lives are equal? Do not be naive. The woman’s life does not satisfy me- she is not mine. What more shall you give to satisfy your debt? ”  
Her hands curled and dug into Abdi-Ptah’s skin as her legs shook, her heart seizing in her chest. He had taken Ishah, and now…he threatened to take her son.  
“I am giving you this gift, Iana,” he whispered, “I and I alone. By my grace, this child took root. Only by my grace will he live. Prove to me that you deserve this child. Prove to me that you want him.”  
“Please!”  
“Is he worth your life?” he asked, “If I were to take you now, would you still pray for life in him?”  
“Yes.”  
“If I told you that you will die violently, torn apart by dogs in exchange for this child, would you still want him to live?”  
“Yes, please,” she pleaded, “Please, master, lord of the skies, please! My son!”  
“I believe you, for the truth cannot hide from me. Lies fall away in my presence, banished to shadows. This is your truth, and I shall accept it. But know this- the promises you have made this evening can never be broken. There is no way but my way.”

And then, the most beautiful sound she had ever heard. The sound of a strong baby’s cry.

“Praise YHWH, he lives!” Tamar cried in joy, cutting him off, lifting his squalling, squirming body high.

She slumped exhaustedly against Abdi-Ptah as Ba’al leaned over her, kissing her sweat soaked forehead. Tamar laid the child in her arms as she wept tears of joy, smelling his fresh, bloody head.

“My son,” she whispered, stroking his little face with her finger, “My strong little Kingfisher.”

Ba’al laid his hand upon the child’s head, pressing his forehead to hers.

“You are my woman, now and forever. You are bound to me by unbreakable chains,” he whispered, “This child is our covenant- you cannot refuse me, for you are mine; my ownership is greater than your child’s, your husband’s, for I am your master and it is only I you answer to. Never say I didn’t warn you, Ithabaal. You have seen your future.”

* * *

 

“The first time I held a living child in my arms, I felt a love unlike anything I have ever experienced before, and I will probably never experience again. To this day, there has never been a greater physical pain I could compare to that birth, but there never has been a greater sense of joy. My son lived, kicking and screaming, announcing his arrival into a world that had the odds stacked against him. My beautiful, strong son, my Kingfisher. He came into the world feet first, a sign of how he would live the rest of his short life.”

She took a deep, rattling breath, hugging herself tightly. She could still smell the heady, iron-tinged scent of his head, moments after he’d come into the world; could still feel the weight of his squirming body in her arms, cradled against her breast. It was such a profound moment of love and heartache, one that would only be repeated once more in her life time at the birth of her second son. The heartache come from the bitterness of the moment- in retrospect, her greatest love opened the gates to her greatest hate. Her children, opening the gate to Lucifer to take as he pleased, including them. She pressed her eyes shut tight, her nails digging into her arms and leaving tiny dots of blood one her skin.

“I and my brothers were all born footlings,” she said softly, “My father said that boys born feet first were especially blessed by Ba’al- they would be surefooted, quick bodied; magnificent warriors who were stubborn and unyielding. They would trample all those who refused them beneath the might of their feet with Ba’als strength and wisdom. Unfortunately, my father would come to find that his sons held none of those qualities.  
Ahav named him Ahaziah- a name that unsettled me. My husband was the consummate warrior, and my first living son’s name reflected his thoughts. He would sit for hours, planning each battle, three, four possibilities in mind for every one; and he had a strategy for each one. My son’s name was intended as a name of might, a blessing. But, as Ahav would not live long enough to find, it was only too true in the cruelest sense. His name meant YHWH Possesses. The joy of my son was tainted by his father’s passionate pursuit of the throne- stolen from my breast mere hours after he was born, lifted high in front of his legions as a beacon of hope to them, but truly as a sacrifice. I did not call him by that cursed name. He was known only to me as Halcyon, Kingfisher.”

“You named your children after birds,” Sam remarked, “You called Athaliah your little green bee-eater, and you called him Kingfisher.”  
“Birds are fascinating creatures, don’t you think?” she asked, “Their hearts are in the skies, far above the strife of earth. When there is trouble, they’re able to simply spread their wings and fly to where things are better. I hoped that by naming them for birds, they would be able to fly above the life that had been pre-ordained for them, that they might escape their fates, unlike me.”  
“Why Kingfisher?” he asked.  
“The Kingfisher, the Halcyon, is a symbol of promise. It symbolizes abundance, warmth, love to come. I hoped that with the birth of my son that I would finally have the love that I so wanted- if not from my husband, then from my God, for birthing a son in his glory. I hoped he would be a symbol of abundance for his country, that he would bring hope and prosperity to Israel, that he would not see the face of war. In the end, he became a bitter memory of halcyon days, days of peace and calm, before my world became the wretched mire of misery that waited in Samaria. He, Athaliah, Joram, they were my nirvana, and they were my undoing. But never once in my existence could I summon it within me to regret them. I’ve seen it in your face, when I tell you this- you recall my devotion to Lucifer, and you can’t understand it. You told me your father’s truth, and now I will tell you mine. I can never hate Lucifer, because he gave me my sons. No matter the cost, no matter the path that unfolded before them and robbed me of them, they were and still are the greatest gifts I have ever received. That is my truth.”

“That’s…” Sam couldn’t find the words to express what he thought of this part of her story- it was horrible, but beautiful. His heart ached for the woman that she once was, so desperate for a child, for love, for hope. His heart cried for this creature sitting in front of him, so bent and twisted in the pain of loss, this creature who could not hate her creator because he gave her what she wanted most as a human; children. That level of love, of sacrifice, of devotion to her offspring brought tears to his eyes. How many people could say they loved their children enough to live thousands of years in torment, to knowingly give away their soul to see them grow and live?

“It’s twisted,” she finished for him, “I know that. It’s twisted that despite it all, I cannot regret what happened to me, to the face of the earth, to the tides of history because of a promise that a 15 year old girl made to a being she believed was a god. I thought I was wise. I thought I knew what I was doing, but the truth of it is, I was just a pawn in one of existence’s greatest practical jokes. That’s the problem with being self-aware, seeing what hell your decisions have wrought thousands of years later. One tiny decision had a ripple effect that has marked every part of human existence, whether or not you know it. I touched your life before you were even sentient.”

“All from one decision.”

“Yup,” she said, holding out her hand expectantly, “All from one decision. I’ve seen kingdoms rise and fall, religions come and go, and Gods crumble into the sands of time. I’ve watched the huddled masses raise their palms to heaven and cry for salvation, only to be met with silence. I have seen the shifting face of this planet with all of the clarity that you see me sitting in front of you, and I still don’t understand the reason why. So you tell me, Sam Winchester- was your father really wrong?”

Sam sat in silence for a moment, mulling over her words. He stood up, walking over to his discarded duffel bag and dug around, finally finding the syringe. He tore open the package with his teeth before returning to her side.

“I don’t know,” he replied, wincing as he pressed the syringe into his arm, drawing his own blood, “I can’t answer that question, I’m biased.”  
“We’re all biased,” Meg replied, “You have to decide if your bias is a strength or a weakness. I’m sure your bias is that you refuse to accept any truth of your father’s to be a universal truth. Believing in his truth makes you think that you’re pardoning or condoning the man he was, as you put it, his violence.”  
“Yes,” he said, pulling the syringe from his arm. Meg reached over to the discarded first aid kit, laying where it had been since Sam had propositioned her to become human. She picked up a Band-Aid, peeling it open and gently pressing it over the needle mark, smoothing it against his skin with tenderness that baffled Sam.

“There,” she said softly, “All better. If only all our injuries could be cared for so easily.”  
He caught her hand in his, his thumb stroking the back of her hand.  
“Do you believe that everything is a joke?” he asked. She laughed, shaking her head.  
“No, not everything,” she replied, “But jokes are funny because they expose the truth. The joke of my existence is that as inhuman as I am to you, when we are stripped to our core, we’re the same. We have the same base motivations, the same needs and desires. The joke is that you will spend forever agonizing over our differences and I have spent forever agonizing over our similarities.”  
“Which way is better?”  
“I can’t answer that question, Sam,” she said with a small smile, “I’m biased.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very excited because this chapter breaks 100,000 words of this story and i am very proud of that thank you all for sticking by this long  
> *laughs into space* haha we're barely at the 4th episode of s9 and this story is already so long holy shitsticks

He spent the next 16 hours in a haze of uncertainty, trying to cope with the information Meg had dumped on him, Kevin’s outburst and refusal to leave his room, Cas being there and being alive. It was almost too much to process all at once, and he sorely wished he could retreat somewhere so he could be alone with his thoughts. He was completely distracted as Cas and Dean began to chat more about Cas’s human experience thus far, checking out the minute he knew they weren’t talking about anything he needed to pay attention to.

“Are there any more burritos?”

And that was enough, Dean could handle the rest.

* * *

_I can’t answer that question, Sam. I’m biased._

For some reason, Sam just couldn’t shake that response off. Sure, he was used to her stonewalling, her non-answers, but something about this one was different. It didn’t feel like a non-answer; it felt more like a confession, and he had no idea how to feel about that. After the conversation they’d had, he had no idea how to feel about her in any sense. Again.

Part of him wanted to stay, to see what exactly his blood did to her when she wasn’t chained to a chair, when she was choosing it. He wanted to convince himself it was out of simple curiosity, but even reducing it to that seemed perverse. Like he got some sort of amusement out of the idea of seeing her in pain. That wasn’t what it was about at all, it wasn’t about seeing her in pain. It wasn’t exactly about seeing her weak, either- sure, that may’ve been part of it, but that wasn’t really it. It was about seeing her without the well-crafted façade that she usually maintained, had flawlessly maintained for years. He wanted to see the real her- not “Meg”.

With her telling her story, giving him her human name, he suddenly realized that he, incidentally, named her. She wasn’t known to anyone he knew by her human name, only the name of the girl she’d possessed when they first met. He’d never stopped calling her by that name, and she’d never stopped going by it. In fact, she seemed to have taken it, made it her own. It was so odd, realizing that the identity that he, his brother, and Cas knew her by was an identity he’d essentially given her. A few years ago, the idea would’ve repulsed him on instinct; but now it was just another mysterious, maddening piece in the puzzle that was the demon.

Names were powerful things to Sam. He knew it was probably a stupid little thing to get caught up in, but names had a strange sort of power in his mind. His name was his identity, a thing that no being, no creature could take from him. It wasn’t a thing that he chose, and yet it defined him, defined his place in existence. A name was the first thing you said to a person, the first real connection that you made with them. A name was the first decision made when he left his mother’s womb. A name is the first word a child learns to recognize, the first step in establishing an identity, a personality. A name was what humanized any being. He could have almost anything taken from him, but the one thing no being could do was take his name, his identity from him. It felt slightly…egotistical to say that his name was his most prized possession, but it was. His body could be taken, controlled, killed. His mind could be manipulated, his emotions could be broken, his life forced to follow a pre-ordained timeline, but his name was something not even God himself could take from him. It was the only thing Sam truly ever felt belonged completely to him.  
Sam had spent so much of his life feeling powerless, feeling as if nothing was really his; and the thing his young mind fixated on as his sense of control was his name. He acted like his insistence on being called Sam was because he disliked being infantilized (which he did, he really did) but it was his way of exerting some sort of control.

_“I know it must be hard for you to understand, but it’s not about you, Sammy-“_

_They were arguing again, Dean towering over him and shoving his finger in his face. He hated feeling small like he always did when Dean used his height to his advantage- he prayed every night, long and hard, that he’d grow and get just as tall as Dean, maybe even taller. Then how could Dean make him feel small? Then they’d be equals. Then Dean would have to take him seriously._   
_He hated the way it felt like everything he did or said was policed by Dean and his Dad- he was only allowed to say what they approved of, what they wanted him to think. He had to do everything their way, even when he knew his way was better. He wasn’t allowed to fight back, he wasn’t allowed to argue, he wasn’t allowed to have his own thoughts. All of this already had him furious as Dean lectured him in his usual sanctimonious, patronizing tone; like Sam was a child who had no concept of reality. He was 14, for fuck’s sake- he was old enough to be handed a weapon and expected to kill, but apparently he wasn’t old enough to have a mind of his own. He was tired of being lectured, he was tired of always being told he was wrong, and he was so fucking tired of being called Sammy when Dean was lording over him like this. It was worse than when his father just called him “boy”._

_“That’s not my name!” Sam yelled, his voice cracking under the strain of the force and puberty, “My name is Sam! Call me Sam!”_   
_“Sammy-“_   
_Sam slammed his palms against his ears, screaming at the top of his lungs, “Sam! Sam! My name is Sam!”_   
_“Jesus Christ, fine! Sam!”_

His name was the one thing he had dominion over. His name was his power.

Realizing that he had given something that he believed held so much power to another being…it was a disconcerting feeling. On one hand, it troubled him deeply- what they did was, by most any other stretch of logic, really fucking weird. She was the second demon they regularly encountered; but unlike Yellow-Eyes, they’d continued to call her by her first vessel’s name. Even now when they talked about Azazel, they never called him that, even though they knew it was his name. They just called him Yellow-Eyes, or the Yellow Eyed Demon. It dehumanized him, maintained his existence as an “it”, a thing, not like them at all. Not human. Nameless. But Meg…they’d named her, and it was just him- Dean did it too. Even after confronted with the vengeful spirit of Meg Masters, Dean still called her Meg. He was aware of just how strange that was.

On the other hand, if felt thrilling. As if, in some twisted way, he had a claim to her. He’d named her after all, she’d picked up the name he’d given her and kept it, even when she had every choice, every right to reject it. But she didn’t. She kept the name he’d used. The logical side of his brain said that clearly, it was just easier for her to go by that name, but his instincts told him otherwise. And the concept that he gave her an identity, a name, made him feel…powerful. And she had willingly given him and accepted that power.

No matter which way he turned the rubix cube that was Meg, a new pattern appeared, a new facet. He couldn’t help it- now that he was able to look back on her actions, on their shared past with clarity, he was fascinated by her. She was a powerful, ancient being; at least a thousand years old, maybe more. She could do things that no other demon could, with more power than they’d seen until Abaddon. She knew things that no other being knew- she, this one being, held more knowledge than the whole bunker, he was absolutely sure of that. And yet, with all that power, all that knowledge, she struggled to find her place in existence. She relied on a cause to drive her actions, to give her meaning. She fought with not only the memory of the feeling of humanity, but the actual memories of her human life. She’d sold herself to an angel, she fell in love with that angel- an angel that hated humans and demons with equal vitriol- and had somehow survived at least a thousand years in his service. But for some reason, she still desperately wanted to die. If she was evil, then she was terrible at it, considering the amount of good she’d done. She was a demon, she was supposed to destroy humanity- and yet, she’d sacrificed herself to save humanity. She was a mystery wrapped in an enigma, and Sam loved picking apart mysteries. It was half the reason he was so good at hunting. She was the one case he hadn’t figured out yet, and that frustrated and fascinated him.

Part of his fascination with her, from day one, was that she was always an aloof mystery. When he first met her, he was absolutely enthralled by her almost predatory demeanor, her above-it-all attitude, her wicked sharp wit, her strong insight. And that was just after a few conversations. As he continued to…encounter her, as much as he hated her, he was still fascinated. She never revealed more than she wanted to, she never spoke without purpose. She moved through their lives like an untouchable wrecking ball, slipping through their fingers just when they thought they had her. And it always seemed like she was aiming for him as she plowed through their lives. Almost a decade in retrospect, he realized this stemmed from the fact that she was more interested in him than she was anything-or anyone- else, the fact that she fixated on him anytime they were in the same room. She chose to possess him, not Dean, him. She stole his free will. And he fucking hated her with every fiber of his being. He didn’t know how to explain to Bobby and Dean what that experience had been like- they didn’t want to hear a word about it. Not when Sam’s body had killed and tortured their friends. That’s when he really felt like everything started changing- between him and Dean, between him and Bobby, between him and everyone. He’d felt…violated, but at the same time, he felt complicit. He didn’t know how to explain the complexity of sharing a body and a consciousness with another presence, a demon; how to explain the strange feeling of having thoughts that weren’t his own and weren’t in his own voice. He didn’t know how to explain that his experience had left him deeply shaken, because there came a point when he didn’t know where she ended and he began- what thoughts were his, what emotions were hers. He felt complicit with that strange, incredibly intense connection with her. For years afterwards, up until he let Lucifer in, he almost felt like she’d left a part of herself inside him. Like fingerprints all over the crime scene she’d left behind. It was different with Lucifer- there was a distinct separation between him and the archangel that hadn’t been there between him and Meg. She had forcibly taken him, left her thumbprints all over his mind, and somehow he hated her less for it than he hated Lucifer. It had disgusted him, for years, knowing that he shared a connection with her; but after Lucifer, after the cage….all other things paled, lost the meaning it once held. After the cage, almost every other hate, every other hurt in his life faded into static. Lucifer took more than anyone ever had, ever could again.

And that was why, at this moment, even after everything- he was doing this. Talking to her, giving her his blood, thinking about her with anything other hate and anger. Lucifer had taken most of the hate out of him. And what little he had left for anyone other than Lucifer, he wasn’t using on her. Not after what she’d done to atone for what she’d done. She’d done more to right her wrongs that she’d committed against him than any other being ever had.

He could admit now that before he knew what she was, he’d been attracted to her. It wasn’t difficult then to put that aside- he was busy trying to kill Azazel and find his father. He had an easier time stuffing things away in the dark recesses of his mind when he was young- now, there was too much to jam in there, so he had to decide what stayed in and what came out.

_Traumatic childhood memories?_   
_Stays._   
_Some of the shit you did on demon blood and soulless?_   
_Stays._   
_The cage?_   
_No fucking way that shit is coming out. And it takes up the most room._   
_Latent attraction to demon who fucked your life up and then saved it?_   
_…_   
_That can come out._

He felt so conflicted. He’d come to the decision that she wasn’t like Ruby, in any way. His attraction to her was nothing like the attraction he’d had to Ruby. Ruby was his savior. Ruby promised him the world, and robbed him blind. Ruby was his dealer, she was his drug, she was his addiction. Ruby smashed him, and managed to convince him the whole time she did it that she was putting him back together.  
For some reason, even then, Meg possessing him didn’t seem nearly as horrible when he compared it to what Ruby had done. Meg was none of those things, never had been, never attempted to be. Meg had never done any of those things. She’d taken, yes, she’d taken him; but she’d done it with force, not manipulation. She didn’t force him to be complicit in her crimes. She didn’t use him as a shield. She made sure that everyone knew that it may’ve been his body, but it was her actions.

The only two similarities between Ruby and Meg were that they were both demons and they were both women.  
But either way, if he thought about it too long, he realized just how twisted it was. How twisted he was.

He didn’t realize how deep into his thoughts he had gotten until he realized that he was now in his room, laying down on the bed. He’d been doing that a lot lately, it seemed- sinking so far into his own mind that his body just went on autopilot. It was weird- was she really having that much of an effect on him? Maybe it was just exhaustion.  
He didn’t have to wait long for sleep to take him under, even with his racing thoughts.

* * *

 

“Why?”  
“You’re putting us in danger,” Dean said, fidgeting. Dean couldn’t meet Cas’s eyes, hearing the earnest confusion in his voice. Like Cas couldn’t possibly imagine ever putting them in danger.  
“But…I am warded. The angels themselves cannot find me.”  
“That’s not good enough.”  
“Why?”

That was the worst thing about dealing with this kinda stuff with Cas- he couldn’t seem to grasp Dean’s reasoning, didn’t understand that he wasn’t doing it to be an asshole, but because he had to watch his own damn hide. Dean didn’t think he could feel any shittier than he already did, but the world had a funny way of surprising him. He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to find an excuse that was believable, but wouldn’t hurt Cas. He did kinda feel bad for the former angel- he was even less equipped to deal with being an adult human than Dean was when he was 6, he’d barely managed to stay alive thus far. It was clear that Cas had no idea how to be human, nor did he have any business being human- he wasn’t like Anna, who loved humans and wanted free will. Cas had spent all his time taking his free will and shitting on it, either by not using it or by using it in all the wrong ways. He wasn’t too kind to humanity either- he had almost destroyed it and he didn’t seem to regret much about it other than it fucking Dean and Sam over. Which was something, he supposed.

Even with all that in mind, kicking him out was still so incredibly shitty, but what choice did he have? It was fucking Zeke’s fault, he decided, after silencing the soft voice in the back of his mind that argued that in all reality, it was actually his fault since he was the one who’d tricked Sam into letting Zeke into his body.

The worst thing was, after all the shit, even despite the guilt, he still considered this worth it. He hated the fact that he was being faced with the decision- Cas or Sam- and it was a non-decision. He didn’t need to think, he didn’t hesitate. He chose Sam.

And why shouldn’t he? Cas was right earlier- he’d fucked them six ways from Sunday, only playing sorry when he got caught with his dick dirty. That was something Dean didn’t think anyone realized about him; that he never forgot the things Cas had done. How could he? He cared for Cas, but he was constantly at war with his instincts when it came to the angel. His instincts always kicked in at odd times- when Cas was weak, when his back was turned, the hunting instinct in him screamed, _Here’s your chance! Finish this! He’s too dangerous!_

Cas had, in no minced words, tried to kill Sam. He was perfectly aware that Sam’s little adventure off the rails and into crazy land was caused by Godstiel breaking down the wall in Sam’s head. All because Dean wouldn’t bow to him. Cas had also almost beat Dean to death. In fact, Dean was quite sure that Cas had beaten his face in worse than fucking Lucifer did- yes, he snapped out of it, he healed him, but there was some stuff that angel mojo just couldn’t fix. He never admitted it out loud, never said anything directly to anyone about it, but he was well aware of these things, he never forgot about them. He still felt uncomfortable around Cas. His mind occasionally took him back to the empty look in the angel’s eyes, Dean’s blood coating his knuckles, prepared to land another blow. He would carry that memory forever; he just didn’t see a point in talking about it. He learned at a young age that talking about these sorts of things with people you’re close to was pointless and painful. It was just better to swallow it, forgive, and keep his guard up.  
And while he may’ve mostly forgiven Cas for everything he’d done, he was still very aware of how Cas could be, how easily he could go from an ally to a huge threat, and he wasn’t about to leave them vulnerable to that. Not with Sam as fragile as he was, not with Kevin depending on him, not with the demon bitch running loose. Honestly, even if Ezekiel hadn’t demanded he kick out Cas, he still would’ve considered it. Dean may’ve given Cas plenty of second chances, but he wasn’t a complete idiot. A second chance didn’t mean a free pass. At that moment, Cas wasn’t a threat himself, but his presence was. That was usually the start of a slippery fucking slope with a shit heap covered in glass waiting at the bottom.

“It’s nothing personal, Cas,” Dean began, taking a deep breath, “But you got a lot of bad mojo coming down on you, hard. Being with us isn’t gonna keep you safe, shit, it might just get you killed, you could get us killed too. And with the demon bitch and Kevin and, we’re dealing with all sorts of crazy shit, and the tablet…” he trailed off, realizing that nothing he said was really coherent, let alone an answer. And Cas was still staring at him, like a puppy eager to make up for peeing on the carpet.  
_If only it were that fucking easy._

“You can’t stay, “Dean finally finished as he regained his voice. Cas looked even more confused , cocking his head to the side.  
“You said that already, Dean.”  
“I guess I did.”  
“You never answered my question.”  
“What question?”  
“Why must I leave? Have I made you angry?”

Dean sighed, rubbing his face. Sometimes, he wished the world could be like Sammy on this- he told Sam to go, usually he went. He said stay away, Sam generally stayed away. Sam didn’t listen when it came to a lot of things (and there were times when he listened to the absolute wrong thing…), but he didn’t demand a thousand reasons or apologies to get him out the door. He just…did what he was told, after a bit of pleading. And he didn’t ask questions like that.

“No, I’m not angry, Cas,” He sighed, “You just can’t stay.”  
“But usually when you banish someone from your presence, it is because they have made you angry,” Cas said, his brow furrowed, “Every time you have sent Sam away-“  
“I don’t do that!” Dean snapped angrily, “I don’t just…fucking send people away when they piss me off. I get away when I have to. It’s not something I do when I’m angry.”  
“Not always,” Castiel intoned, “But it is one of your standard procedures.”

Dean felt his blood boil with anger and guilt- he didn’t need this shit, least of all from fucking Cas. Cas was the cause of this whole fucking thing, angels were every problem he didn’t need times ten. At least demons had the fucking decency not to meltdown every two fucking minutes and expect him to clean up after them. At least demons were consistent, even fucking Crowley was consistent. With the exception of two demons, Dean was able to just go on autopilot when dealing with them, they were so predictable. But angels, ha- fuck angels. Angels are dangerous because they constantly exist on the edge of ever-loving insanity. All of them were completely fucking unhinged, falling very quickly into this…angel pit of madness. One day, they were fine. The next, they fucking short-circuited. Cas was the only angel he ever saw bounce back from that, but it just made the cycle that much more exhausting. He knew for a fact that pissing off Zeke without proper prep would send him into that same angel spiral, and that was way too fucking dangerous. He didn’t have time to babysit Cas and Sam and Kevin and Zeke and fucking Meg. He barely had time to take a hot shit.

“You can’t stay,” Dean said once again, “That’s it. You can’t stay, because I can’t take the risk with Sam and Kevin, because I can’t handle any more angel shit than I’ve already got. I’ll help you get some stuff together so you’ll be okay- we’re not leaving you totally fucked- but you just. Can’t. Stay.”  
“But you will allow me to stay the night?” he asked hopefully. Dean nodded slowly.  
“One night,” Dean said, “Eat, get some rest, but just tonight.”

Cas nodded, standing on his feet. He didn’t feel comfortable staying in the same room as Dean right now- despite the man saying he wasn’t angry, Cas knew Dean very well, and his tone and body language screamed anger. He didn’t want to risk angering him further as he started to inch his way towards the hallway of rooms.  
“Thank you, Dean,” he said, “I will take advantage of tonight then.”

Castiel was very conflicted about everything that had happened- being brought to the bunker only to be ordered out the next day, dying, having sex, Meg being alive. He was slightly confused over Dean’s reaction, but the more he thought about it, the more sense it made. He had consistently brought danger to him, and endangered Dean’s life with his own actions. He always tried to make up for it, though, and Dean always seemed to take that into consideration. Dean always gave him a chance to fix his wrongs, but this time he wasn’t. Had he erred so horrifically? He felt incredibly alone again- if at all possible, he felt even more alone than he had felt the last couple of weeks, roaming aimlessly without a friend to call upon.  
But he may’ve had one friend here…

* * *

 

Castiel knocked on the door tentatively, unsure if this was really the right decision. He knew she was angry with him, and her anger was never something he wanted to face. Even as an angel, her rage held a level of intimidation he would never admit to, and as a human….he was very well versed in the vulnerabilities being human came with. But she was the only one that seemed to understand human feelings, the only one who would explain things to him. He may not’ve decided just how he felt about her, or how he felt about her being alive, but he knew that she had shown him kindness when all others had not.  
The only difference was, she had not been angry at that time. And Meg’s anger had a habit of being a bit…violent.

He took a deep breath when no answer came, wrapping his hand around the door knob.  
“Meg, I am coming in.”

He turned the knob, opening the door and ducking as the plastic first aid kit shattered on the wall next to him, sending a spray of plastic shards flying. He managed to catch a quick glance at her petite form, tense and shaking as she looked for another item to throw at him. She was angrier than he’d expected, and he had expected her to be quite angry.

“Get out!” she shrieked, “Get out!”

She told him to stay away from her; didn’t she tell him to stay the fuck away from her? It was like he existed with the sole purpose of pissing her off. No matter what she did, no matter what she said, he seemed to come trailing after her at the worst fucking times, just to forget she existed when it was convenient. Why? Why couldn’t he listen? Why didn’t anyone just fucking listen to her? If people just listened to her, the world could be saved a whole lot of pain- half of it coming from her.

_I say kill me, they keep me alive. I say don’t do that, they do it. I say stay away, they come barging in. What is it with these fucking morons?_

“Meg, I only wish to speak with you,” Castiel called out over her yelling, throwing his arms up to protect himself from the magazines she continued to hurl at him.

He wanted to talk to her? What the fuck did he have to say that he thought could fix the fucking mega-doomer situation he’d help create? What the fuck could he possibly say that would fix what he did, leaving Sam and Dean to clean up his shit sack mess?  
“You wanna talk?” she yelled, dropping the magazine in her hand and stomping towards him, “You...”

Cas cringed as the creature who always knew what to say apparently lost her grasp on language, slapping at him. Her hands landed all over his head and shoulders as he cringed in the face of the frantic blows, wordlessly screaming at him. He knew she was only using a fraction of her strength, but it was still painful; emotionally and physically. It was strange- as an angel, a blow was merely a physical hindrance. As a human, a blow made him feel ashamed, bewildered, afraid. The complexities of the connection between physical sensation and emotions were still difficult for him to deal with.

She was fucking furious. He wanted to talk, what, try to manipulate her into falling for his shit? Again?

“Meg, please!” Castiel yelled, trying to get away from her hands, only to trap himself in a corner, “I am sorry for leaving you to die….again.”

Suddenly the blows and the screaming stopped, replaced by the sound of her heavy breathing.  
“You’re…you’re sorry for what?” she demanded, grabbing him by the front of his shirt, “That’s….that’s seriously what you think I’m angry about? You leaving me to die? Is the space between your ears seriously that packed full of shit?”  
“That is not why you are angry?” Castiel asked, looking at her curiously, “I had thought that was a….a very great taboo, what I did when I left you there to face Crowley alone.”  
Meg’s hands dug in her hair, ready to tear it out. How was he so…so damn stupid? Why was she surrounded by fucking idiots? What did she ever do to deserve this kind of torment?  
Wait, scratch that, I know the answer to that question.

“You…god, you are like a giant child,” she sighed, the fight going out of her, “A giant, overly powerful child.” She shook her head tiredly, pointing to the bed, “Sit. Now.”

Castiel obediently sat down on the edge of the bed, his hands folded in his lap and staring up at her earnestly. She ran her fingers through her messy hair, trying to figure out how to have a conversation with him without wanting to punch him at her full strength- something that would’ve knocked normal Castiel on his ass, but would probably kill new human Cas. She was fucking exhausted- why was she even bothering? Castiel never understood anything. She frankly wasn’t sure if it was because he genuinely couldn’t understand or if he flat out refused to, but either way, she was getting tired of being his second go-to reference for knowledge. She was ready to give up, until she remembered- _His first go to is Dean. That’s the blind leading the blind._

“Okay,” she said, summoning all her patience, “I am not mad about you leaving me to die, because I was fine. I can handle myself. Anyways, the idea of dying doesn’t bother me, which apparently I haven’t made clear to anyone since they keep acting like they’re doing me a favor by not killing me. What I’m angry about is the fact that you left Sam and Dean to clean up your mess. A mess, let me remind you, that involved not only every mother fucker in heaven, but every mother fucker in hell too. I’m fucking furious with you because you have no concept of consequences, cause and effect. Did you not think by short-circuiting you would set off Naomi and her cronies? Did you not think that Crowley and his goons would be right there waiting for them to come out, to fucking massacre them?”

“But you were there,” Castiel said, cocking his head to the side, “I knew you would protect Sam, and in the process protect Dean. Low level demons like the ones Crowley uses for his guard are…nothing to you. I was aware of the consequences of my actions.”  
“You mouthy little fuck- hold on, time out,” she said, making a T with her hands, “What do you mean, you knew I would protect Sam?”  
Castiel chuckled bemusedly, clearing his throat when he saw the look on her face.  
“As I have said in the past, Dean and I share a profound bond. It has…changed greatly, but the bond remains,” Cas began, “That bond enabled me to break the control Naomi had over me. I see the same bond between you and Sam, which is only fitting, considering-“  
“Don’t say it,” she spat, “If you say it, I will punch you right in your pretty, stupid face.”

She knew she looked fit to kill- a few people had made the mistake of comparing Sam to Lucifer. Crowley had done it several times when she was trapped in his tender, loving care.

_She had her teeth clenched together, breathing sharply through her nose. Not many people (besides other demons, that is) knew that demons still felt pain when they were injured- sure, a punch didn’t do much, but breaking a bone hurt like a bitch. Or, having bleach repeatedly poured over your fucking head burnt like fucking fire after the third or fourth time in a row that someone did it._   
_“I like you better as a blonde,” Crowley’s greasy voice said, snapping his fingers at the demon that had been pouring the shit over her head._   
_“Eat me, fuck boy,” she groaned, opening her eyes when she was sure the majority of the bleach was done running over her face, “You think you’re hot shit, but you forget what I know about you…” she paused, adopting a thick, Scottish accent, “Fergus MacCleod.”_   
_Crowley looked up at the demon, pointing to the door._   
_“Leave us.”_   
_The demon scurried out of the small bathroom as Crowley sat on the toilet, looking over at her in the bathtub._   
_“Two can play at that game,” he replied. She laughed at him, leaning forward._   
_“No, two really can’t,” she spat, “You don’t know dogshit about me, Fergus. Go on, say my name. If you know so much, say my fucking name.”_   
_She grinned smugly as Crowley’s face went an ugly color of puce with fury._   
_“I may not know your name, whore, but I know plenty about you,” he said smoothly, setting aside his fury for gratification, “Like your obsession with the Winchesters.”_   
_“Oh boy, you caught me,” she snarked, “Whatever shall I do, you have discovered that I am obsessed with Winchesters, like 90% of fucking hell. Oh, my Achilles heel! How shall I ever survive this devastating blow?”_   
_“Oh, that’s not the secret,” Crowley said, clicking his tongue, “The secret is why. It only makes sense that you would whore yourself out to them, since-”_   
_“Didn’t your Mummy try to sell you for a pig?”_   
_And then, with the torture._

“Don’t say it.”

Castiel lifted his hands in surrender. Clearly, he was not the only person who had made the connection.  
“You and Sam share a profound bond as well. I do not understand it, but it has always been clear to me that your care for him is very different from your apparent emotions towards me. I am aware that every scenario in which you have cared for me and protected me, it was to benefit a greater…how do you call it…cause. I’ve only ever assumed it was Sam, since Lucifer was locked in the cage.”  
She pursed her lips together tightly, staring him down. She was most definitely not a fan of where this was going. They stared at each other in silence until Castiel finally spoke again.  
“That bothers you,” he said, his face scrunching up, “It bothers you that you and Sam have a bond. I don’t understand.”  
She laughed lightly, sitting down on the bed next to him, folding her arms across her chest.  
“Of course you don’t, you never do, Clarence,” she muttered, “Because you’re a fucking angel.”  
“I am human now,” he replied, “Perhaps this is something I can learn.”  
“You’ve been human for a few months, and as far as I can tell, you are fucking terrible at it,” she said with a small smile, “I’m still…fucking furious with you, you understand that much, right?”  
“I understand,” he said, looking down at his hands, “It would appear that Dean is angry with me as well. He has told me I cannot stay here. He will let me stay tonight, but no longer than that.”  
“What?” she demanded, pulling him to face her, “What the fuck do you mean, he won’t let you stay?”  
“He says that it is too dangerous for me to stay, with the other angels looking for me,” he paused when he saw the look on her face, cringing a little, “I did not mean-“

_This stinks of not-Zeke._

“You didn’t,” she cut him off, standing, “Stay. Put. Do you understand me?”  
“Yes, Meg,” he said, “How long do I stay put?”  
“Until I come get you,” she replied.  
“Where are you going?” he asked.  
“To talk to Dean fucking Winchester.”

She stomped out of the room and down the hall to the common area, her mind racing. While yes, she could easily concede that having Castiel within a five mile radius of your person is almost a spot on indicator of a death wish; the fact remained that Dean Winchester was about as intelligent as a box of rocks when it came to the angel. He handed out second chances to him like they were lollipops at the doctor’s office, despite every clear demonstration of why that was the worst fucking idea ever. Dean randomly deciding to kick Cas to the curb was a little too intelligent, a little too impersonal. Dean could puff up and beat his chest all he wanted; the truth was that he was a needy, emotional man who would not throw away a connection with anyone unless someone or something was twisting his balls. Castiel was all he had left from before the Apocalypse other than Sam- the old fart Bobby was worm food, and no one else had long shelf life with them. Dean needed to be needed- that’s why he kept Sam under his thumb the way he did, why he did the same thing to Kevin. And here was sad, doe-eyed Cas, very very needy indeed, and Dean was shoving him out the door. It was completely out of character, and she was going to get to the bottom of that shit barrel and figure out who the fuck was pulling strings.

It was clear Dean was about half a fifth into drinking his sorrows away, flipping through the pages of a book aimlessly.   
_Pathetic_.   
She stood in front of him, slapping her palms down on the table and leaning forward.

“Are you kicking him out because of Ezekiel?” she demanded, “Don’t fuck me around, Dean, and don’t bother lying.”  
Dean jumped to his feet, mirroring her position. What the fuck was she playing at? Was she trying to get Sam killed, announcing that shit with her bullhorn mouth?  
“Keep your fucking voice down,” he spat, “I don’t want Sam to-“  
“You don’t want Sam to find out, whatever,” she snapped back, “Don’t you think that’s a little fucking suspicious? You know, demanding that you kick out the only fucking creature you know who could confirm or deny his identity? Ordering you to kick out the one reason why you even considered letting him into Sam in the first place?”  
“Yeah, of course I think it’s fucking suspicious, but what fucking choice do I have?” he replied, flopping down in his chair again, “Will you just….sit the fuck down? I’ve had enough fighting for one day. I’m too tired to keep fighting with you. I’m too tired to fight everything all the time; I’m too damn old for this.”

And that was the truth of it. He was exhausted- being the fucking babysitter of humanity wasn’t puppies and kittens a booze and busty Asian beauties- and he didn’t have it in him to keep fighting, not in his home. Not even with her. What’s the worst she could do? Kill him? He didn’t even really know why he and Sam fought so hard to stay alive anymore; they knew what their options were- Heaven or Hell. Both options were dog shit; but what difference would it really make at this point? Half the time, they were saving the world because they were the ones who broke it. And the more he drank, the more he realized that Cas and Sam had a point- she was a scum sucking demon bitch from hell, but she was a scum sucking demon bitch from hell who had gone kamikaze for the world, and had (tried) to give them the angel tablet. He didn’t trust her as far as he could throw her, but in all reality, she was really the least of his problems. And if nothing else, she was useful. So why not just let her be useful? He could kill her later. When he was a little less buzzed from the whiskey and Vics and the Oxys in him. When he was a little less exhausted.

Meg gave him a suspicious look before sitting down, catching the tumbler that he slid across the table to her, nudging the bottle of whiskey her way.  
“Have a drink,” he said.  
“Why?” she demanded. Dean was generally a predictable guy, once you got to know him and his habits well enough. 9 goddamn years of chasing his skirt, in her opinion, made her pretty well-versed on the subject of Dean Fucking Winchester- and Dean Fucking Winchester didn’t have a habit of drinking with demons. Unless he was drinking over their corpse. Or while torturing them. This whole conversation, this whole day – _hell, the past, what, 3 years_ \- was a grab bag of weird, freaky, topsy turvy and mysterious mysteries of strange mystery. She liked chaos, but this was a level of chaos that made even her uncomfortable.

He gave her an annoyed look, rolling his eyes.  
“It’s plain old Jack,” he sighed, “Just have a fucking drink.”

Meg took the bottle, pouring herself a generous portion before downing most of it in one gulp.If he wanted her to drink, she was gonna drink. Dean glanced over at her, one eyebrow raised.  
“You must need a drink as much as I do if you’re knocking it back like that,” he commented, watching as she poured another, “It’s not a contest, jesus.”  
She knocked the second one back just as quickly before pouring a third, pushing the bottle back to him.  
“You’re quite a bit ahead of me,” she replied, “I’m just playing catch up.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, both of them finishing their glasses and refilling again. It was a strange sort of silent understanding between them, the exhaustion with their lives. Between the lingering effects of Sam’s blood and the pills Dean had popped, both of them were just too out of it to keep up their usual games.

“I still fucking hate you,” Dean said, no real venom in his voice. Like he was just stating that the sky was blue, or that water was indeed wet. Just a fact.  
“And I still hate you, Pisschester,” she replied with a smirk, lifting her glass, “We don’t have to like each other to get drunk together.”  
“Why do you give a shit if Cas can’t stay?” he asked, his brow furrowed.  
“Were you dropped on your head a lot as a child?” she asked, rolling her eyes, “Castiel, for all of his faults, is useful when the right hand is guiding him. And you sending him out there to deal with all this on his own is basically a death sentence, and you know it.”  
“I forgot,” Dean said, chuckling, “Sammy thinks you’re in love with him.”

Meg scoffed, taking a sip of the whiskey. _Love._ As if Dean Winchester understood the concept- he’d barely even experienced it, let alone given it.

“I don’t know how to love,” she replied, “And even if I did, Clarence doesn’t either. Sure, we played a little hanky panky, I took care of him. The problem is, you guys are human. So you see shit like that and apparently think, ‘Oh, they’re in luuuuuurve’. Castiel is a celestial being who is made up of all sorts of shit I don’t feel like explaining. That being said, he’s not equipped to have romantic or sexual feelings. As human, I dunno, maybe. But when he’s himself? He’s asexual. He has no libido because his true form has no need for it. All sex at its core is a biological function intended to fulfill a need. Animals have sex to procreate. Humans have sex to procreate, to feel pleasure, to create a bond, to fulfill some emotional need- well most of them. Angels aren’t supposed to procreate. They don’t generally need to develop bonds, and while having some semblance of emotions, sex does nothing for their emotions as far as I’ve ever been able to tell. The greatest ecstasy an angel can experience is total servitude to God. And because of being what he is, he has no need for romance. It does nothing for him and frankly he doesn’t even comprehend it. So no. He’s not in love with me.”  
“What about you?” Dean asked with a smirk, “You did a whole lotta touchin and squeezing and talkin.”  
“I like sex,” she replied, shrugging, “I was a human, once upon a time. Just because I’m a demon doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy the things I did when I was human- I don’t need to eat or sleep, but I still do it because it feels good. Sex falls into the category of things that feel good, like drinking.”  
“So you’re not in love with Cas.”  
“Like I said,” she replied, killing off her glass in one gulp, “I don’t know how to love.”  
“You mind telling my brother that?” He asked with a barking laugh, shaking his head, “What the hell do you two talk about? I’m not an idiot, I know he’s always sloping off to talk to you for hours at a time.”  
“You’re still an idiot,” she said, “The weather, current news, stuff like that.”  
“He was in that room with you for 3 hours,” Dean said skeptically, “Are you fucking my brother?”  
“No,” she said, “Why, does he want me to fuck him?”  
“Fuck if I know,” Dean shrugged, “He spends most of his time defending you. Figured something’s gotta be making him do that.”  
“So your first thought is, what? That I’ve seduced him with my devil vagina magic?” she laughed, “Honey, if it were that easy, I would’ve fucked all of you by now- woulda put a flag on your face and fucked you for old glory, but still. I don’t know what’s gotten up Sam’s ass, but it sure hasn’t been my pinkie.”  
“You’re fucking disgusting,” Dean said with an amused snort.  
“I’ll drink to that.”

Dean traced his finger around the rim of his glass, looking over at her. He wasn’t ever going to admit it out loud, but since this whole situation had started, Meg seemed to have a ton of insight into the inner workings of angels, and Zeke was really starting to skeeve him out. He needed advice; and while he’d usually go to Sam or Cas, neither of them could know. She already knew, and apparently she’d kept her trap shut thus far….she was his only option.

“What should I do about Cas?” he asked.  
“You’re asking me?” she laughed, “That’s rich. Dean Winchester asking a demon for advice.”  
“Whether or not I like it, we’re kinda stuck in this together,” he replied, “Fighting each other all the time isn’t going to make this any easier.”  
“I like you drunk. You’re almost bearable.”  
“So?” he asked, “What should I do?”  
“Well, like I said, you left yourself fucked with old Zeke. I hate to admit it, but the choice right now is between Sam and Cas, unless you wanna call him on leaving.”  
“You think he’s bluffing?”  
“Not really, no.”  
“You know if it’s a choice-“  
“I know,” she said quietly, “I know, Dean. Clarence has to hit the old dusty trails.”

They sat in silence, and then Dean spoke again.  
_Boy must be allergic to silence._

“Did you tell Kevin to say that shit earlier?”  
“I told him to stand up for himself. Everything he said came straight from him,” she said, “You treat him like garbage and you know it. You both do.”  
“I’m doing my best.”  
“Yeah, so do better,” she said.  
“Why do you care?” Dean said, wrinkling his nose.  
“Because it’s fucking infuriating to watch,” she snapped, “You go around in circles all the fucking time- you do the same thing over and over and over and you expect a different fucking result. That’s sheer insanity. You take the methods that you learned that never worked and you keep applying them over and over, like if you keep slamming your face into a brick wall hard enough and you believe enough, it’s gonna knock the thing down. Except instead of just ruining your face, you’re ruining the two people you act like it’s your sworn duty to protect. It’s fucking infuriating. If you’re going to destroy something, own up to it.”  
“What, like you’ve never lied about your intentions.”  
“Not to the level that you do,” she said, shrugging, “You embrace them in one hand and stab them with the knife in the other. I have a knife in both hands and flail wildly. Both are relatively effective, but one is a little more fucked up than the other. Besides- I’m a fucking demon. Am I really the standard that you should barely hold yourself above?”  
“I hate talking to you.”  
“Yeah, I know, Chief. I just ruin everything I touch.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i know i'm basically a shit human who is always late updating but just so you know it aint from lack of effort i am currently sitting in a bus station in amarillo texas at freaking 3 am updating this because i just finished this chapter  
> so  
> i love you for reading this  
> also this is a mini-chapter (for me) and im sorry you have to deal with such a garbage writer (me)  
> ok im done thank u

Meg didn’t want to have to tell Castiel that she was now agreeing with Dean about him leaving, but for once, the muttonhead had a point. Castiel had a habit of making wonderful pig sties out of the bed of his life, but for once it was just too dangerous for Dean and the rest of them to lie down with him. It was amazing to her- no matter how fucked up Dean was towards Sam, no matter how fucking shitty he was to his little brother, the man would do anything to protect him from what he saw as a threat to him. It just so happened that this time, Dean’s instincts were actually right.  
The fact of it was, out of the four of them, Castiel was the one who’d fucked up the most, had put them in the most danger, had hurt them the most. And the fact was, out of all four of them, Sam had done the least to hurt them- the man had been willing to die twice to save the world, and he already had once. Castiel’s jaunt in Purgatory didn’t count in her opinion; he’d let out the leviathans, he’d caused that apocalypse through his own power hungry stupidity. It didn’t matter if he meant well, because he meant well only for the angels- he didn’t give a shit about the humans, he just wanted to fix heaven. Just like he’d done this time. Yes, he’d proven many times that his allegiance was with the Winchesters, but he’d also proven that if he thought he could “fix” the angels and heaven, he’d do just about anything (and trust just about anyone) to do it.

It was pathetic to her, really. In fact, as pathetic as she found Dean, she found Castiel to be ten times worse. It was almost understandable, Dean’s complete ineptitude and martyr attitude; his willingness to risk everything in order to achieve an end- usually stopping the end of the world or saving his brother. He was born and bred, raised to be that way. His entire existence was molded around protecting his brother and other people in any way he could, around risking life, limb and sanity. That had been his purpose, his cause since he was a child. Of course, he’d gotten a lot of that twisted along the way, but considering the fact that his entire life had been forced to follow a pre-ordained path, he’d done impressively well with what tools he had. Plus, he had served his cause successfully more than once. Not that she’d tell him that. Ever.  
Castiel, however, didn’t have that excuse. Angels were created to serve God, and God had commanded them to care for the humans first and foremost- she’d heard that straight from Lucifer’s mouth. Castiel’s very existence had been molded for that purpose, and he had only once managed to legitimately serve his purpose. After that, he’d consistently gone against it in favor of saving the angels, saving heaven for them, for reasons she couldn’t comprehend. It wasn’t even as if he had ever truly had the power or influence to accomplish either of those lofty goals, he just seemed to think he did.

He was created with a cause, a purpose, and he consistently refused to serve them. It irritated her to no end, as a being that constantly had to search for purpose, for a cause.

Even so, it wouldn’t make a difference to Castiel if she said all that to him. And though she tended to do pointless things relatively often these days, she wasn’t going to do something as pointless as that. She’d all but given up on the angel. All she could do was try to rein him in, try to put him in the right direction…try to keep him alive.

She tossed the brandy bottle up and down in her hand as she made her way back to her room, trying to decide just how to approach this. Part of her really wanted to tell Cas the truth- about what Dean had done, about Ezekiel. But, that would put Sam in danger, and that was not something she was about to do. Not when she’d busted her ass thus far to keep that stupid, giant child alive.

She opened the door, closing it behind her gently. Castiel sat up from where he was lying on the bed, looking concerned. If it had been another situation, if something else had been at risk if she told the truth, she probably would’ve given in from that look. But it wasn’t different. She’d just have to deal with it.

“You didn’t kill him, did you?” he asked. She snorted, flopping down next to him. Like she would’ve killed Dean, especially over Castiel. She wouldn’t kill either of them, no matter how much shit she talked. She needed them, and she’d busted her ass keeping them alive too. It’d all be pretty pointless if she just went stabbing them willy nilly.

“No, I didn’t kill him. I didn’t even hurt him,” she said, opening the bottle and drinking from it, “Listen, not that I owe you an explanation, but Dean explained why you can’t stay, and I’m gonna have to agree with him on this one.”  
“You agree with Dean? Why?”  
“You said that you saw a bond between me and Sam, like the one between you and Dean. If it was Dean in this situation, and I was putting him in danger, you wouldn’t hesitate to make me leave- hell, you’d probably try to kill me. I’m not agreeing with Dean because I’m angry with you. In fact it makes my skin crawl to agree with him. But…” she took another drink from the bottle, “I have to protect Sam and Kevin. They come first. They have to come first for once. That’s why- and that means you can’t stay.”

Castiel nodded slowly, a sorrowful but understanding expression on his face. It hurt him that even Meg was casting him out, but the look on her face told him that she indeed was serious- both in her agreement with him leaving and her reasoning. Over time, as he got to know the demon better, he had developed a fondness and respect for her. Despite being a demon, he had seen that she had her own code of morals. He may not have always understood what exactly influenced those morals, but he had to respect and appreciate any being that could be so headstrong and firm in her beliefs. He also had to respect and appreciate anyone who took the time to give him an explanation, to be so honest with him despite her nature; even when he had been so dishonest to her. Even when she didn’t owe him anything.

“That makes sense to me,” he said, tugging on the sleeves of his sweatshirt, “I would like to believe that I have taken the necessary precautions to prevent bringing trouble to Sam and Dean and Kevin, but if April is any indication…my fortifications have some weaknesses. I do not want to leave, but I trust your judgment. I know that you do not act rashly in these situations. If you believe that the angels are a threat because of my presence, it must be true. Your instincts on such matters are rarely incorrect.”

“I’m sorry, Clarence,” she said quietly, before returning to her normal tone, “Which reminds me- you can’t go around using the name Clarence as your alias, bozo.”  
“Why?”  
“Because it’s the name of the most famous angel ever.”  
“…I do not know an angel named Clarence, Meg.”

She took another swig, shaking her head.  
“God, you’re so clueless,” she snorted, holding out the bottle to him, “Clarence is the name of the angel trying to earn his wings in the movie “It’s a Wonderful Life”.”  
“We do not have to earn our-“  
“Yes, my sweet Honeybee, I know,” she said tiredly, “Drink.”  
“Why?”  
“Because I told you to. When have I ever steered you wrong?”  
“I do not think it would be a good idea for me to get inebriated right now, Meg.”  
“Fine,” she replied, drinking form the bottle, “You can be a goody two-shoes and I’ll get drunk. Now, you need a name.”  
“But I have a name,” Castiel argued, “I am rather fond of the name Clarence.”  
“That’s great, but you need something a little more…common. Like John. Or Bob. Nah, neither of those- maybe Steve…you look like you could be a Steve.”  
Castiel looked at her quizzically, touching his face.  
“Do I?” he asked, “I suppose Steve is an…acceptable name. I still prefer Clarence.” He paused, looking like he was thinking hard. Meg sat up, raising an eyebrow at him.  
“Don’t hurt yourself,” she said with a chuckle, “What’s got those wheels a-spinnin’, Clarence? I mean, Steve.”  
Castiel looked concerned, suddenly very interested in the strings on his hooded sweatshirt. Discussing his transition from angel to human had proven to be a fruitless endeavor when it came to Dean and Sam; in fact, Sam had seemed oddly disinterested throughout the conversation, which was quite out of character for him. But he felt Meg would understand. She had been human, and she was not any more. Surely she would understand, surely she could help.

“The human experience is extremely…complex,” he began, “The biological functions are confusing enough; it was hard at first for me to discern what the signals my body was sending me. And the pain and pleasure sensations…they are associated with so many things. I never realized that humans felt so much all at once, and it never ends. Relieving myself was quite a hurdle the first time, with the sensations-“  
“Woah, babe, TMI,” she said quickly, “I’ve been human, I know how all that works.”  
“Should I not discuss that?”  
“No. Bathroom stuff is strictly private. You go off talking about that, you’re going to look like a freak.”  
“Okay,” he said, nodding slowly, “But the human body is…fascinating. I am constantly in communication with my own being. Tasting, feeling, smelling; knowing when to eat and when to drink and when to sleep….understanding all these processes was exhausting the first few weeks I was human. I used to think that humans were incredibly inefficient creatures, the time it takes them to evolve, to learn, to accomplish things. But after experiencing the complexity that is living…I am amazed that they have any time to accomplish anything. The satisfaction of biological processes alone must take at least half of a human lifespan- yet, I have that under control now. But I am not sure how to contend with these….emotions.”

Meg couldn’t help but laugh. Poor little Castiel, the most emotional angel she had ever met, trying to contend with the weight and strength of human emotions. It was poetic, really. The one thing she knew he would never experience, never comprehend about her, and here he was experiencing it. She didn’t know why she bothered thinking she knew things.

“Yeah, feelings are a bitch,” she replied, “That’s why Dean needs his bottle all the time. By the way- don’t do that. In fact, you should probably just stay away from everything that could alter your mental state. You strike me as the type who has an addiction tooth.”  
“What does that mean?”  
“It means that you probably would get hooked and end up ruining your new human life.”  
“Oh. Yes, I suppose you are right. I have never been very good at tempering myself,” he said, seeming to file that away before continuing, “I feel such…unbearable guilt, for so many things,” he said mournfully, looking over at her with wide eyes, “I have done very bad things, and knowing that there is no way to truly atone for such things, it is very…” he cleared his throat, “I have felt emotions, as an angel. But they are nothing compared to the intensity of the emotions of humans. I used to feel that the guilt I carried for my actions was very great, but now…Humans, when they are intimate with one person, they are not supposed to be intimate with other humans. That is the rule, correct?”  
“I mean…I guess. Why do you ask?” she asked, suddenly uncomfortable.  
“Then the rule is for the offending human to tell the truth,” he said, “I had sexual intercourse with April.”

_Oh. So that is what he’s feeling guilty about. He thinks I care if he had sex._

“Look at my little angel, all grown up,” she said with a laugh, “Did you enjoy it?”  
“It was…strange,” he replied, “Tiring, noisy, somewhat messy. Certainly pleasurable, but I still do not understand why Dean enjoys it so much.”  
Meg couldn’t help it. She collapsed back against the bed, laughing.  
“Oh, you are just precious,” she giggled, looking over at him.  
“I thought you would be angry,” Castiel said, his brow furrowing, “But you are laughing at me.”  
“Why would I be angry about you getting jiggy with some chick?” she asked, “Besides, it doesn’t even sound like you liked it.”  
“You had displayed a sexual interest in me previously, and we have shared some physical intimacy,” Castiel replied, “I have come to assume that this would make humans angry, if the object of their stirrings is intimate with another.”  
“I’m not a human, Cas,” she said, sitting up and sighing, “And don’t call them stirrings.”  
“I understand that you are not human,” Castiel replied, “But your behavior…it is often very human I find it difficult to know what human morals and beliefs you hold.”  
She brushed her fingers through his hair, shaking her head at him. Poor, sweet, stupid Castiel.  
“You have a great ass,” she said with a smile, “And a face I would totally sit on, but I know what you are, Castiel. You don’t understand sex, you don’t understand romance, hell, you barely know what to do with all the human emotions. I don’t expect anything from you. I never have. That’s the difference between me and humans; I know that everything is fleeting. You can bone anyone you want, free of guilt. You don’t belong to me and I certainly don’t belong to you. Just wear protection, okay? Earth can only handle one of you, plus crotch rot is super gross.”  
He looked at her curiously, cocking his head.  
“I should…wear armor?” he asked, “Dean asked me if I had protection as well when I informed him I had been intimate with April. I had the angel blade but it was decidedly of no use in that situation.”  
She bit her lip hard, trying not to laugh even more.  
“Condoms,” she barely choked out, “He was asking if you had a condom.”  
“What is a condom?”  
“It’s a little rubber glove for your naughty bits,” she replied, “You put it on to keep from knocking a girl up and getting crotch rot.”  
“I don’t understand.”  
“It’s human contraception,” She explained, “You put it on your penis to stop your semen from entering the woman and impregnating her. It also reduces your chances of being infected with venereal diseases.”  
“Why didn’t you just say that?” Castiel asked, “You and Dean say things in the strangest ways.”  
“We talk the way most humans talk,” she said dismissively, “But fucking April isn’t why you feel guilty and you know it. You’ve been to the Winchester School of Deflection. Look, it’s like I told you before- you can’t change what you’ve already done. You can only learn from your mistakes and not make them again. First mistake- stop trusting angels. I’ve never trusted an angel, not since Lucifer.”  
“You have never trusted me?” he asked, sounding wounded. She shook her head, shrugging.  
“Nope. Sorry, kid,” she said, “But then again, you’ve demonstrated a few times why that was a really good decision.”  
“I am…truly sorry.”  
“I know you are,” she replied dismissively, “And I’m not angry, that’s not what I’m getting at. I’m just saying, I learned my lesson and you need to too- don’t trust angels. Don’t trust demons. Don’t trust Winchesters. Don’t trust anyone.”  
“Anyone?”  
“Anyone. You trust people, you get fucked.”  
“I trust you,” He replied.  
“You shouldn’t.”  
“Why?”  
“Because I’m a demon, you idiot,” she snapped, “ We’re supposed to be mortal enemies, all that jazz.”  
“I understand that,” Castiel intoned, “But you have given me very few reasons to distrust you, besides your nature.”  
“That’s a pretty big fucking reason,” she replied, “Don’t trust people, Castiel. It will hurt you, hell, it may even get you killed.” She paused, her face going blank as she stared into space.

 _“Do you trust me? Then do not question my will.”_  
She was young and stupid and entirely too loyal for her own good.

“Meg?”  
She blinked rapidly, looking back over at him. She was about 100% over this whole flashback bullshit- there was a reason she’d built up those walls, never opening that Pandora’s box unless she was certain she was alone, unless she was certain she’d have time to recover. Problem was, with Sam’s blood pumping through her, she didn’t seem to recover much at all- it was like a cut that had just barely begun to heal, throbbing and ready to burst and tear at the drop of a hat. She barely registered his voice through the dense fog of her thoughts, silently cursing to herself. She didn’t like being this unaware, unable to pull herself out of the past and her thoughts quick enough to keep her turmoil hidden.  
“What?” she snapped quickly, fixing a glare on him. He flinched away from her acerbic tone, looking like a kicked puppy.  
“You looked…distressed,” Castiel said, “ I was concerned. Are you alright?”  
“I’m fine,” she said quickly, brushing him off, “You look like shit. Go to sleep.”  
“But-“ he began to argue, only to be cut off by the look on her face, the way her body seemed to collapse around itself as she hugged her stomach.  
“Please,” she said softly, “Just…go to sleep. Or lay there quietly. I’m tired of talking. I need quiet for a bit.”

Castiel had never known a time that he had exhausted her desire to talk, a time when the creature who lived for chaos and noise needed silence. Even when he was “crazy” as Dean put it, she seemed to have an endless well of patience, talking to him about things that in retrospect meant nothing in the grand scheme of things, enduring the noise and chaos of his mind as if she couldn’t think of anything she’d rather do, despite her feigned indifference. She treated each of his thoughts like they were just as important as he felt they had been at the time. In the time he had known the demon woman, she had never told him that she was tired, especially not of talking, of noise.  
He examined her with new eyes- before as an angel; he had never really paid attention to her vessel, instead always focusing on the face of the demonic spirit she was. When he was crazy, he could find such beauty in her true form, so different from others of her kind that he had seen. There was a certain poetry in her grotesque nature, a grace in her essence. Such care had been put into her creation, so many well laid plans moving to perfect completion to create what she was, not unlike the same fascination he found in Dean, and more recently in Sam. That she was created, in her flawed, tragic and twisted form, from such astronomical odds. She could have been a thousand different things, a thousand different ways, and somehow, this what she had become. It had fascinated him then. But now, seeing her through human eyes, he found a new fascination.  
Her true form never displayed her exhaustion, the weight of age and experience not translating quite the same way it did in her vessel. She looked old, despite the young face she wore. Her shoulders sagged beneath a weight that his eyes couldn’t see, and there was a sadness in her eyes that he had not expected to see. It was not unlike the sadness he had so often seen in Dean and Sam’s eyes, a burden upon the soul that could not be seen unless one looked. He had never looked for it in her before, and as he found it, he found it yet again beautiful. Such thorny pain, such beautiful confliction concentrated into a single being. It was suddenly no wonder to him that she had a bond with Sam. They seemed, in his opinion, to be kindred spirits at their core. So sad, so alone, even when they were surrounded by others. So different from their own kind, so fragile in their own strange ways, and yet they thrived in the most hostile of conditions.

It was no great confession, in Castiel’s opinion, to say that Sam was unlike his brother, unlike his fellow man. Sam had been intended that way, to be so far divorced from and yet in essence so true to the definitions of human, as the vessel of Lucifer. Sam Winchester held all of the traits humans most hated in each other, whether they chose to acknowledge that hatred or not. He was an intelligent, cunning man, he was loyal to a painful fault, he was beautiful, he was self-sufficient and self-reliant, and he was inconsolably hopeful, even when every ounce of logic and reality showed that there was no hope. He soldiered on boldly, with no care for the pity others had for him and themselves. It was that in particular, Castiel had realized many years after first meeting him, that made Sam so intensely likable and detestable. Whereas Dean needed to be loved, to be needed, to be reassured and praised and expected it from those close to him, Sam did not. Of course, the boy desperately needed affection, approval, something he’d had so little of in his life outside of his brother, but he had learned to survive without it, to rely on himself and only himself for his well-being and survival. On the outside, this would seem like a positive thing- but humans can sense when those near them do not need them, are not dependent upon them. They can sense when they have no power over a person. And that was, most often, when they turned against one another. It was only fitting to Castiel that Sam shared these traits, these effects on his fellow humans that Lucifer had and had on the angels. Those lesser than him feared and envied his strength, his cunning, his beauty. Those more powerful abhorred his self-sufficiency, his lack of interest in them, their lack of power over him, his undying loyalty to no one but God.

When he had first met the boy king, Sam Winchester, he considered him an abomination, an aberration of the human form and God’s glory. He was a man that had drunk from that unholy fount, from the blood of the creature who killed his mother, from a demon; no matter if he was willing or not. He was a vessel intended for pure evil, to end the Earth and humanity with Lucifer leading his hands. Sam Winchester was tainted, unclean, awash in sin from infancy. And for a very long time- in fact, until he released the Leviathans from Purgatory- Castiel had accepted this rhetoric as fact, rather than the same fictional narrative that had placed Dean in hell as the Righteous Man. A narrative that he neglected to recognize for what it was, a narrative he had heard before.

In retrospect, Castiel was angry with himself for the way he treated Sam, for the things he said and did when he realized he had been, in Meg’s words, duped.

When the humans divided into factions, garrisons of religion, he had found the Catholic concept of inherent, original sin so insulting and perverse. To say that an infant bore the curse of the first human disobedience was unacceptable, no never mind completely wrong- as if God had not intended for the humans to eat of the tree, as if he had expected them to ignore the forbidden fruit. God created all things in the beginning- he may not give care to what happened now, but then….everything did happen for a reason, everything was part of a plan. Who were these humans, to decide who bore sin? Were they so arrogant, so foolish, so caught up in their delusions that they believed that they were so without sin that they could condemn a pure human life? Did they truly think they knew all, that they knew the soul better than the Father? It sickened him.  
But, he had been just as arrogant and foolish. He failed to see the truth; the truth that he had done the same thing to Sam Winchester from the moment he saw him, had heard of him. He spouted the same beliefs he had so abhorred to an innocent man; a man who did not have a choice in being tainted, in following the path set before him. Even as he attempted to rebel, he simply could not- the destiny set before him was too strong, and his life and personality too perfectly shaped to reject its calling. How was it his fault that God had not only allowed, but commanded that his life be so difficult, so pain filled, just to serve his own purpose? How was it his fault that God commanded that he and his brother, above all others, be sacrifices to his great plans for existence? And how could he, a mere Seraphim, question that plan, treat the lambs of sacrifice that were Sam and Dean Winchester with nothing short of reverence? He had been a cruel arrogant fool, causing such pain, giving such contempt.  
But he couldn’t fix that- Meg had made that perfectly clear; and while he knew Dean still held anger and distrust in his heart, he also knew that Sam, in his strange grace, had forgiven him from his first insult, his first cruel utterance. And when he had first realized it, when he broke down the wall protecting Sam’s mind from the torture he endured at the hands of his brothers, he had felt disgust and contempt. Who was Sam Winchester to forgive him? Yet now, that forgiveness, that simple kindness, that understanding helped soothe the sting of Dean’s swift rejection. Yes, he would struggle alone in a world that he had always observed but rarely understood, but if Meg and Dean insisted it was to protect the man who had only ever shown him compassion and understanding, he would accept it in the hopes that it would be the beginning to repairing the damage he had caused the boy.

He watched silently as Meg curled into a ball on the bed across from where he sat, her diminutive form making the small space of the twin bed seem expansive. Like Sam, she too in her strange grace had given him forgiveness from his first transgression against her, did not seem to hold anger in her towards the sins he had committed against her, and in his human guilt, he felt they were legion. He had used her body as a bridge, not caring if that holy fire left her in agonizing pain, if it killed her slowly. He didn’t even look back as he heard her pained cries, he didn’t even turn a glance to see if she had crawled away. He left her to face a hell hound, to face torture, to further his own purpose and plans with a being she hated. He left her to die, uncaring that she had chosen to help them, chosen to try and get Sam’s soul back- his soul, which Castiel had left in the cage. She forced Dean to make him remember who and what he was, pushed him to correct his crime against Sam, and then remained to care for him. She had killed to protect him, had comforted him, had encouraged him to look past what he thought he was. She challenged his convictions and beliefs, forced him to take the free will he had discovered and think heavily on the proper ways to utilize it. But, ever the difficult being that she was, she refused to tell him what to do with it. She had given so much to him and taken so little for herself. She would not compromise, she would not yield. Her strength was something he had always marveled at- the strength of her personality, the force of her determination. Beyond the expansive powers she had, powers only to be rivaled now by Abaddon, he marveled at her power in such ways that were not enhanced by her demonic nature.

So seeing her look so small, so tired and vulnerable, was unnerving. Few beings in the last decade had been consistent in Castiel’s world, and she had been the most consistent of them all. He could always rely on her loyalty, her strength, her rage and her no-nonsense attitude. But now, seeing her shoulders quake almost imperceptibly, he felt a bolt of fear through his core. He did not understand what had caused this change in her, and while he could see that in many ways it was somewhat positive, it left him afraid. He had always believed that Dean had an indomitable soul and spirit, yet so often he and Sam had to grab him and drag him back from the abyss of his despair. He learned that Dean was extremely strong and durable, but as the cracks spidered out and deepened, he would suddenly fall to pieces. And though Sam would always be there to try to put him back together, those fissures remained as eternal weak spots, always the first to crack under the pressure. Was that what she was beginning to experience? Had so many centuries of constant pressure began to crack the stony façade of her will? Would she finally surrender herself completely to what should have, by all logic, happened eons ago? Was she on the brink of giving up?

He wanted to comfort her, the way she had comforted him in his pain and bewilderment. He reached out to her hesitantly, laying a trembling hand on her shoulder. She flinched and he jerked his hand away, taking another deep breath before reaching out once more, his long fingers caressing the soft curve of her shoulder gently.

“You cannot give up,” he said firmly, “They need you. I am…of no use to them now, as a human. I am a danger to them, I always have been. But you are not. You have saved them, more times than I am sure you care to admit. They will need saved once again, very soon.”  
“They always do,” she whispered, “But why should I save them? What have they ever done for me?”  
“Nothing,” Castiel replied baldly, “But that is not why you do the things that you do. You expect nothing in return, so why do you claim that you do?”  
She let out a wet laughed, hugging herself and clinging to the loose sleeves of the shirt that didn’t belong to her.  
“Because I like to play pretend sometimes too,” she said, “It’s hard, being the hero all the time, saving the damsels in distress when they’re so much bigger than me. Makes them hard to carry.”  
Castiel couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped him at her remark, squeezing her shoulder.  
“I believe there is a human colloquialism that is very appropriate in this moment, “he responded, “Great things often come in small packages.”

Meg laughed, rolling over and hitting him with the pillow that was under her head; but unlike before, the action of being struck did not make him feel ashamed or afraid. Instead, it made him feel good, like he had helped her feel better.  
“You’re too stupid to live and too smart to die,” she chuckled, “Go to sleep, Clarence. Big day tomorrow.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pls enjoy  
> also the album "how big, how blue, how beautiful" by florence and the machine is really boss and yeah i know it came out last year but i'm just sayin  
> that has nothing to do with this chapter, i just really really like it

“I’m not going!”

Meg looked up from her magazine, cocking her head to the side. She knew that voice- it belonged to Kevin, and wherever someone wanted him to go, he wasn’t too keen on it. She tossed the magazine aside, sneaking over to the door and cracking it open, trying to hear the conversation better. She'd kept a low profile since Castiel had left, not really willing to end up on Dean's eviction list. A list, it seemed, that now had Kevin's name on it. 

“Kev,” Dean insisted, folding his arms over his chest. He’d tried reaching out to Kevin that morning, only to have Kevin scramble away from his touch, looking wild and afraid. That’d hurt- it hurt hard and deep, seeing Kevin look genuinely afraid of him. Just like Cas had the day before yesterday, pressed against the wall, as far away from him as he could. Dean didn’t know when he’d started scaring the people closest to him like this, didn’t understand it. He wondered briefly if his father had ever felt like this; confused at the way he and Sam shrank away from his touch, why they always gave him such a wide berth. He found himself wondering about his father more and more, the more aware he became of their similarities. In fact, last night he laid in his bed, staring at the ceiling and realizing- right now, at this moment, he was 5 years older than his father was when his mother died. Right now, he was the same age his father was when he took Dean out on a hunt at 9 years old, handed him a gun, and told him, “Be quiet, or I will give you a reason to be loud.”  
He tried to imagine if he had a son, telling him those same things. He tried to imagine looking at any child with the same expression his father had looked at him, using the same tone that his father had used. He just…couldn’t imagine it. He wondered if his father ever stopped and wondered when his children became soldiers, when fear of him became the driving force in their actions. He wondered if it hurt him as deep as the fear and distrust he was beginning to see in Kevin, in Cas, even in Sam.  
“Come on. It’s not that big of a deal.”

“No, I’m not coming on, Dean!” Kevin snapped back, the tablet clutched to his chest, “It is a big deal- this is my life! You think I’m crazy? I’m not leaving this bunker for anything! There’s angels and demons out there, and guess what?” he held up the stone, shaking it, “They all want this! And me! Because apparently I’m the only person alive who can read this stupid thing, and even I can barely read it!”  
Dean sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Why did it suddenly feel like no one trusted him? He hadn’t done anything to make them distrust him…well, nothing they knew about.

“It’s not like I’m gonna leave you defenseless,” he explained, “I’ll ward that thing to holy hell and back- it’ll be like your own private bunker.”  
“What part of NO don’t you understand?” Kevin demanded, “Why the hell do you want me out so bad anyways, huh? You’ve been basically keeping me hostage here for the last few months, and what, now you want me to go? No way. I’m not gonna die just because it’s inconvenient for me to be here for whatever reason.”

Dean had to bite back the bark in his voice that sounded eerily similar to his childhood, had to dial down the anger he’d seen so much. Why didn’t anyone understand? He did what he did to keep them all safe, to keep them alive. Why did he even bother trying, when this was the reaction he got? Then a terrifying thought crossed his mind: Y _ou think you’re scared to go out there? I’ll give you a reason to be scared of staying in here._  
That thought was enough to scare him out of anger and straight into pleading.

“You need a break, I thought this would be the best way to give you one,” he said, “Please, Kevin…”  
“Like hell you did,” Kevin said, backing away, “Since when did you care about me needing a break, huh? You never cared before.”  
Never cared. That hurt almost as much as Kevin flinching away from him.  
“Since now apparently,” Dean snapped, covering his hurt with anger, “I’m doing my fucking best-“  
“I don’t care,” Kevin spat, “Not when your best is gonna get me killed. I’m not leaving, and you can’t make me.”

He felt like Sam was 15 again, fighting him tooth and nail on every damn thing, refusing to do anything he was told. In some ways, Dean missed when he and Sam were younger, when things were simpler, but that was something he never missed. He never missed when Sam looked at him as if he were the one issuing all the orders that apparently made him miserable, like he just made up things arbitrarily to upset him. Like Dean just lived to make him miserable, like Dean didn’t care about his happiness or well-being; when in many ways, it was the only thing he could muster up enough will to care for. Sam had finally learned that Dean never went out of his way to upset him; he was just trying to protect him. Obviously, Kevin hadn’t come to that realization, and it sent his anger coursing through him with redoubled strength. If he didn’t want to listen when he was asked, then he could listen when he was ordered.

“Don’t test me, Kevin. I’m not asking anymore.”  
“Like you were asking in the first place!”

Meg roamed out of her room, standing behind Dean with her arms folded across her chest. Clearly, she had walked in on quite a battle of wills, and one she was pretty sure Dean wasn’t ready for. Kevin came across as the type to submit when enough pressure was applied; but the opposite was true. The harder you pressed down on Kevin, the harder he pushed back; and that was exactly what was happening here. She watched with satisfaction as a wide grin spread across Kevin’s face at the sight of her, his chest puffing out. It was a little sad that she had become the catalyst for his confidence, but it was also yet another thing she found endearing about him.

“What the hell are you grinning at?” Dean demanded, his temper flaring higher. Kevin pointed at Meg, his grin spreading even wider.  
“Her.”

Dean whirled around to face Meg, his face going red with fury. She was the last thing he needed or wanted to deal with at the moment, and of course, here she was. She never failed to show up when he least expected her- or least wanted her.  
She raised an eyebrow, shrugging casually. It wasn’t her fault that Dean didn’t know how to handle people. Or that she’d suddenly learned how to handle a little prophet that was filled to the brim with piss and vinegar. But the way he was looking at her, well, you would’ve thought she’d just shit in his oatmeal- like he was already disappointed with the situation, but she’d just made it a thousand times worse.

“What?” she said, “I was just foraging…but since I was brought into this….”  
She walked over to the long tables, hopping up on the edge and putting her chin in her hands, “Tell Dr. Meg what’s going on.”  
“More like Nurse Ratched,” he snorted, making her scowl.  
“If I’m Ratched, you’re McMurphy,” she snapped, “In the mood for a lobotomy? No? Then shut the fuck up unless you’re answering the question.”

Dean gave her the strongest glare he could muster as she met his gaze evenly, simply raising her eyebrow. When was he going to figure out that she wasn’t like the rest of the people he surrounded himself with? She didn’t buckle under the cold fury in those mossy eyes, no matter how long he stared. He let out a loud, exasperated sigh, giving up and throwing his hands in the air.

“Fine,” He snapped, “Look, I was just telling Kevin I wanted to give him a break, outside of the bunker. I literally found him under the table this morning rocking himself, crying and muttering. I think he’s on the edge of a nervous breakdown and-“  
Meg held up a hand to silence him, hopping down off the table and approaching Kevin.  
“Is he telling the truth?” she asked, her tone laced with concern. Dean looked like a slapped nancy, staring at her slack jawed. He had never heard her talk so…nicely. To anyone; including his brother. He stared at them, the way that Kevin seemed to forget he was standing there, the way they both did, focusing only on each other. Part of him wondered if that’s what he and Sam looked like when they talked. Or how they used to look.

Kevin blushed, dropping his head to avoid her gaze. She lifted his chin enough to look in his eyes.  
“Tell me,” she commanded.  
“He’s making it sound worse than it was,” Kevin replied sheepishly, “I’m fine.”  
“That’s not what I asked,” she snapped in an annoyed tone, “I asked if he was telling the truth. Remember our little promise?”  
“Meg…” Kevin moaned, “Come on!”  
“Oh no. I keep my part, you keep yours. Now answer the fucking question.”  
“Okay, fine, so maybe I was having a little breakdown this morning, but I have them all the time!” Kevin replied, “I’m fine, seriously.”

Meg gave him a strong look- one that wasn’t exactly angry, but something else. In fact, as Dean observed it, it wasn’t much different than the look Jody served up in spades to Sam when she asked him how he was and he gave her some sort of bullshit answer- one of maternal irritation. What made it so strange was seeing it on the face of a being he literally watched torture souls in hell without a hint of emotion. It was disconcerting, and he had no idea how to react to that. It was almost like she genuinely cared about Kevin.

“No you aren’t,” she said, looking back at Dean before wrinkling her nose at Dean’s expression, “Dude, what’s wrong with you?”  
“You’re being weird,” Dean said suspiciously. Meg gave him a confused, irritated look, tossing her hair.  
“Seriously?” she demanded, “Like you even know me enough to know when I’m being weird. So, what were you planning on, dropping him off in one of your little hidey holes away from civilization for a few days?”  
“Something like that.”  
“Yeah, figures,” she snorted, rolling her eyes, “Well I can’t exactly blame Kevin for his lack of enthusiasm at that idea.”  
“I’m not going out there alone,” Kevin chipped in, “If I go out there alone, someone will kill me.”  
“So what do you want?” Dean demanded, snorting, “What, you wanna take her with you?”  
“Yes.”

It was Meg’s turn to look as shocked as Dean did; their expressions eerily similar as they gaped at Kevin. Dean’s brow furrowed as he recovered enough to ask, “Wanna run that by me again?”  
“I said yes,” Kevin replied, “If you’re making me leave, I want Meg to go with me.”  
“Do you know how batshit insane that is?” Dean demanded, “Do you want to end up in Crowley’s hands again?”  
“No,” Kevin replied, “That’s why I want her to go with me. I’ve seen her kill an angel so hard in the face that she scared other angels away from Castiel. You guys can’t even do that, but she did. And you guys have all made a point of telling me that she basically makes mincemeat of anything that gets in her way, except you guys and Crowley.”  
“Who I could make mincemeat,” Meg added irritably, “If someone wasn’t busy being butt buddies with him.”  
“First of all,” Dean began, pointing at Meg, “I am not butt buddies with him. He has been more useful alive every single time you’ve wanted to kill him, so pick a better time to murder him. Second of all, Kevin, she will probably ditch your ass the minute I’m gone. Then you’ll be alone, and we won’t have someone to help translate the tablet.”  
“No she won’t,” Kevin said confidently, “She can’t.”  
“The fuck you mean she can’t?”  
“I mean, think about it,” Kevin said, a persuasive tone entering his voice, “How many demons has she killed and fucked over, working for Lucifer and then helping you guys? How many people has she pissed off? She can’t leave me because if she does, you guys won’t protect her anymore, and she’s probably at the top of a lot of hit lists. I mean, we know at the very least that she’s at the top of Crowley’s, and he’s the king of hell-“  
“No he is not,” Meg snapped. Kevin rolled his eyes, continuing.  
“My point is it’d be suicide for her to leave me.”

Dean seemed to be mulling over Kevin’s reasoning, his arms folded tightly across his chest. Honestly, it wasn’t a bad idea as he thought about it- he really could use a break from her, and she seemed weirdly affectionate towards Kevin. Always had, come to think of it. But still, the idea of her being anything but a frenemy was not exactly an idea he wanted to subscribe to.  
“What if she trades you for her life?” he asked, “You think of that?”  
“Oh fuck you,” Meg spat, “Seriously?”  
“Yeah, seriously,” Dean replied with equal venom, “Don’t you remember your favorite little lecture? Every creature serves itself.”

Kevin could see the animosity between the demon and hunter rising quickly, stepping between them and breaking their little staring contest. Unlike just about anyone else, they both seemed to have a very tenuous grip on their self-control towards each other; and Kevin didn’t want to lay bets on that fight. Mostly because he figured they’d both end up dead.  
“I have a solution for that too,” Kevin said slyly, “The demon tablet taught me a lot of stuff, not just how to make demon killing bombs. There was a binding spell that would solve this problem.”  
“What, binding her powers?”  
“No,” Kevin said, “We can bind her to me.”  
“What?” Meg and Dean demanded at the same time before glaring at one another.  
“I mean, the ingredients are hard to find, but a human can bind a demon to them as a form of protection, and it’s worked dozens of times in history. That’s usually how people survive really freaky things that totally should’ve killed them- they had this binding spell. Crowley said he was pretty sure it would work on just about any supernatural being- demon, angel, werewolf, whatever. He tested it- it worked perfectly with demons being bound to humans or being bound to other demons, but I escaped before he could test it any further. If we bind her to me, I can’t die as long as she’s alive. Pair that with a tracking spell and some sigils to keep us from being tracked by angels or conventional spells, and it could work. But I’d only do it if she said it was okay. And if I could take her with me,” he paused, looking at Dean’s stunned expression, “ I learned a lot of spell work while I was with that asshole. That’s about 50% of his power.”

Meg folded her arms across her chest, biting her lip. She knew exactly what spell Kevin was talking about, and she was actually a particular fan of that idea. But she knew that wouldn’t be enough for Dean. However, there was a spell that might just be enough for him- even if it was a pretty dangerous spell for her to reveal to them.

“I have something that’d help too. A literal leash,” she said, “It’s a spell that would keep me from being more than 50 feet from Kevin at any given time. If that’d make you feel better, Deanie Weenie, I’d be willing to show Kevin how to cast it and how to get rid of it afterwards.”  
“But you know how to take it off,” he pointed out, “What would stop you from taking it off as soon as I left?”  
“Well, other than the difficult to find ingredients, nothing but my word.”  
“Yeah, I trust your word as much as I trust the National Enquirer as a reputable news source.”  
“Just curious,” she snapped irritably, “What exactly have I done that makes you not trust me?”  
“Other than you being a lying, scum sucking demon bitch from hell who literally worked for Satan?” Dean said sarcastically, “Oh, nothing.”  
“Might I remind you that you wouldn’t fucking be alive right now if it weren’t for me?” she spat, “And Sam would also be dead a few times over. Castiel too. And the world would have ended. Should I continue?” she paused, planting her hands on her hips, “Never mind a few other things-“  
“Stop,” Dean said quickly, realizing exactly what she was talking about, “If I agree to this- and it is a big fucking if- the rest of it gets done my way. You go where I tell you to go, you stay where I tell you to stay, and you do what I tell you to do. No ifs, ands, or buts about it.”  
“Like that’s any different from anything else,” Kevin muttered.  
“That’s right,” Dean snapped, “I tell you guys to do things my way because my way keeps us alive.”  
“Sort of,” Meg snarked, rolling her eyes, “Fine, big boy, put your dick away. You let Kevin do the spells, and we’ll listen to you like good puppies.”  
“That’s mostly directed at you, bitch,” Dean spat.  
“I know, dick for brains. Unlike you, I don’t need to have everything spelled out for me,” she snorted, “I will stay with Kevin and follow all your stupid little demands.”  
“Do you just live to fucking irritate me?”  
“It’s my new life’s work. Get used to it.”  
“I can’t wait to kill you.”  
“What, like you couldn’t wait to kill Crowley? Cancel my subscription, I'm over your issues. You need me, so you can just rub one out in the shower fantasizing about that for now.”

Dean’s jaw twitched at her response, knowing that was the truth of it. He may’ve wanted to kill her, but he needed her…for a few reasons.  
“I still haven’t said yes,” he spat.  
“Sam would think it’s a good idea,” Kevin said hopefully, trying to wheedle Dean to see things his way. Dean opened his mouth, only to be interrupted by Sam’s groggy, half-awake voice coming from the other side of the room.  
“What would I think is a good idea?” he half yawned, trying to rub the sleep out of his face. Dean shook his head, glaring at Meg and Kevin.  
“Nothin, Sammy,” he said, glancing over his shoulder, “Go get some coffee.” Sam’s face screwed up in irritated confusion as he shuffled over to them, looking tired.  
“I’ll get some coffee in a minute,” he replied, “What’s going on?”  
“Me and Kevin are just having a conversation,” Dean said, “It’s not a big deal.”  
“But it is a big deal,” Kevin argued, “Dean wants me to leave the bunker, but he won’t listen-”

All the tiredness seemed to leave Sam’s body at that, his eyes wide and awake as he looked between his brother and Kevin. Cas was one thing- he knew Dean said that Cas chose to leave, but he also knew how his brother was; he had a way of forcing people to do things and then acting like it was all their idea. But Kevin leaving was not a conversation he was willing to have. Sam had fucked up before- he’d left Kevin out in the cold to depend on only himself, put his life in danger because of his selfishness. Kevin was a good enough person not to completely hold that against him, to still be his friend despite that. While Dean had seemed to get attached to Adam forever ago over blood; Sam had gotten attached to Kevin out of a sense of similarity, of kinship that was a little deeper than that in his opinion. He could understand Kevin, and Kevin understood him. He looked at the prophet the same way Dean had looked at Adam- a little brother. He wasn’t about to let go of any connection he had to anyone, let alone one like the connection he felt to Kevin.

“No,” Sam said, cutting him off sharply, “That’s not going to happen.”  
“Now hang on a sec,” Dean began, only to be struck silent by the look of cold determination in Sam’s face.  
“I said no,” he repeated, “That’s it. No. He’s not leaving the bunker. End of conversation.”  
“Sam,” Meg said cautiously, moving forward, “There’s a little bit more to it than that.”  
“I don’t care,” Sam snapped, “No means no. He’s not leaving this bunker. It’s not safe for him.”  
“I said I would go for a few days, but only if I could take Meg with me,” Kevin said, “But Dean doesn’t seem to be on board. He saw me freak out this morning and he thinks I need a break. Meg agrees with him, but I’m not going anywhere without protection. Meg is the best protection that I can ask for.”  
“Thanks, Dumplin,” Meg said, smirking a little. Kevin grinned back, shrugging.  
“It’s true.”

Sam, still looked like he was mulling everything over, his fingers sliding through his hair.  
“You had a freak out?”  
“It was just a little one,” Kevin said sheepishly.  
“It didn’t seem little to me,” Dean snorted.  
“Yeah, well no one’s asking you,” Meg snapped back, “Sam, you know I wouldn’t put him in danger. I think he needs to be away from all this for a few days. Kevin has a pretty solid plan to make this as safe as possible, but Dean’s not too eager to listen to reason.”  
“Come on Sam, you gotta see where I’m coming from,” Dean said desperately, “She’s dangerous.”  
Sam fixed Dean with a hard look, his arms folded across his chest tightly.  
“Him going out there is dangerous,” he replied, “And him going out there alone isn’t an option.”  
“I need you here,” Dean said, “So you can’t go.”  
“Then you go,” Sam replied, “It was your idea, after all.”  
Dean’s nostrils flared with anger, huffing.  
“I need to be here too.”  
“There’s another solution, you know,” Meg said loudly, “I know it’s probably hard to hear over all this brother tension but we said it a few times.”

Dean and Sam completely ignored her, engaged in their own battle of wills. Sam wasn’t letting Kevin leave without protection, and Dean wasn’t on board with any option that he’d been given.

“Wouldn’t it be great if Cas were here?” Sam said coldly, “Then maybe we could send Kevin with him.”  
“Cas said he needed to leave,” Dean growled, moving into Sam’s personal space, their poses mirrored.  
“That’s the story,” Sam said sagely, shrugging.  
“That’s what happened,” Dean snapped back. They continued to stare each other down, getting nowhere. Neither of them were going to budge in their private little argument; which Meg was realizing had very little to do with Kevin. Meg let out a loud sigh, pushing her way between them.

“Okay, the kid doesn’t need to see Mommy and Daddy fight,” she said sharply, “You wanna have a pissing contest, do it over someone else. Kevin doesn’t need your stupid brother bullshit deciding his life.”  
“We wouldn’t be having this fucking argument if you could just keep that ugly pug nose out of our fucking business, bitch,” Dean spat. Meg rolled her eyes, turning to Sam.  
“Sam, seriously,” She said in a low tone, “This isn’t about you and him. It’s about Kevin. We have a binding spell that will link Kevin’s life force to mine. As long as I’m alive, he’s alive, no matter what anyone does to him. There’s also a spell that acts as a leash. It keeps me close to Kevin at all times. Like a devil’s trap that I’m always trapped in within 25 feet of him. How fun is that? Make him listen. Make him understand that this isn’t just the best option, it’s the only option.”  
Sam stared into her eyes, looking for any sign of deception. He couldn’t find any, and he was frankly amazed. She seemed to be making this plea selflessly; which was enough for Sam to take it seriously.

“Sammy-“  
Sam lifted his hand to silence Dean, giving him a weary look.  
“I know. Bad idea, can’t trust her, she’s a demon bitch, Kevin will be fine,” he said tiredly, “I heard your side. I want to hear their side.”  
“Why?” Dean demanded, “Why do you even need to hear their side?”  
“Because I want to, first of all,” Sam said. Dean scrunched up his nose.  
“Why?”  
“Why not?” Sam replied, giving him his signature sturgeon face, “What could it hurt? Kevin, Explain it to me please.”  
Meg opened her mouth, but she closed it in surprise when Sam fixed her with an unamused stare.  
“Kevin. Not you, not Dean. I want to hear Kevin. Everyone shuts the fuck up until Kevin is done saying his peace or I swear to god I will glue your vintage porn-“ he said, pointing at Dean, “-And your Celebrity gossip magazines-“ he pointed at Meg, “Together. Kevin, you have the floor.”

Kevin was a little shocked- Sam never was that straightforward with just about anyone in front of him, especially not Dean. He stared at the hunter, realizing that Sam’s bullshit meter had just about hit critical mass. Sam was tired of the shit, and he wasn’t going to swallow anymore. It was enough to make Kevin almost giddy as he went through the plan.  
He tried to keep up with the speed of the words flying out of Kevin as he explained everything, nodding his head. It seemed like a reasonable plan, and it made sense. It was too dangerous for Kevin to be alone, he and Dean couldn’t go with him, and Meg had enough of a body count to qualify her for playing bodyguard. Plus, Kevin had the added benefit of Meg actually liking him, and agreeing to all that willingly. He rubbed his chin, looking at Kevin pensively.

“What if Dean or I went with you instead?” Sam asked, “Would that work for you?”  
“No offense dude,” Kevin said, “But if you guys go with me, I might as well just stay here. And honestly…” his voice trailed off into mumbling. Sam furrowed his brow, leaning forward.  
“Can you repeat that?” he asked gently, not wanting to come across as demanding, the way Dean usually did when he said the same phrase. Kevin took a deep, heaving breath, hugging himself.  
“I said I trust Meg more,” Kevin said, just above a whisper. He lifted his face enough to look in Sam’s eyes, “I’m sorry.”

That was a kick in the gut- Kevin trusted Meg more than he trusted him or Dean; but he couldn’t honestly blame him.

“It’s okay, Kev,” Sam said kindly, reaching out and squeezing his shoulder gently, “I get it, you don’t really pick and choose who earns your trust.”  
“If she doesn’t go,” Kevin said, regaining his courage with Sam’s understanding, “I don’t go.”  
Sam nodded, releasing Kevin’s shoulder and turning to Dean.  
“There you have it,” Sam said, shrugging, “They both go or he stays.”  
“That’s it,” Dean grunted irritably.  
“That’s it,” Sam replied in a calm tone.

* * *

  
Kevin looked over his notebook, making a list of all the ingredients he needed Dean to get from the store room- because yes, this place even had a fucking store room of spell ingredients. In fact, the only thing this stupid bunker didn’t have was a grocery store. He’d say they didn’t have a gas station, but there were two pumps in the fucking garage- diesel and unleaded. He scribbled quickly as Sam and Meg leaned in the doorway, apparently having a staring contest. It was weird- since Cas had come and gone, Sam had stopped avoiding Meg so much. He wasn’t really sure what had caused the change between hunter and demon, but he was glad of it. They were the two people he was most comfortable around, and having them seem to make a habit out of hovering over him made him feel safe. Like a twisted aunt and uncle who were finally reconciling after a messy divorce to watch over their orphaned nephew. Which was sad, considering he’d mostly surrendered himself to the idea that he was an orphan now.

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Sam said softly, his brow furrowed in concern. He didn’t want to admit that he’d became more comfortable, almost overnight, with the feelings he’d begun to harbor for the demon woman. Of course, there was still a lot of distrust and suspicion, but the more he thought, the more he realized that he could say the same of Castiel. He could say the same of Dean. Why was she any different?  
And, he was lonely. God, he was so fucking lonely. He was so tired of being alone, even when there were people around. He was tired of feeling so completely out of place, so misunderstood. Meg may not’ve gotten everything about him, but she tried, and when she didn’t get it, she didn’t push him away- not for long, anyways. The loyalty she had that so many people had clearly exploited extended far beyond common causes and goals. It extended straight to the mind and heart; she'd made that clear with Kevin. And Sam was tired of acting like an island. Yeah, she was a demon, and she should’ve been the last person he turned to. But in all reality, she really was his last option; he’d tried every other one. And he was going in smarter, less trusting this time- and she wasn’t trying to manipulate him. If she was, she was either very good at it or very bad at it.  
So hearing her and Kevin’s plan had him worried. He finally had two people, two whole people, that he cared about, that seemed to understand the parts of him that Dean never could (or never would). The idea of losing either of them had him… uncomfortable, to say the least.

“I’m not asking you to think,” Meg replied, “I’m asking you to trust us. Kevin can’t keep going the way he is and if anyone can protect him out there, it’s me. The spells are rock solid, and they’ll work. He just needs 72 hours away from all of this, Sam. He wasn’t raised the way you were. This still isn’t his normal, and I don’t think it ever should be,” she paused, her voice dropping even quieter so that Kevin had to strain to hear her, “We will lose him if we don’t do this, and that’s not something I’m gonna let happen.”  
“You’re goin soft,” Sam said teasingly, a small smile on his face. Kevin could still see the trace of unease, but it was nearly gone now when he smiled at Meg. It was true- Meg had gone soft, according to all the stories he’d heard from Sam. But he couldn’t say that he thought it was actually a bad thing.  
“Yeah, goin’ senile in my old age,” she chuckled, “Don’t tell Dean, he’ll have me put down.”  
“No he won’t.”

Kevin found himself forgetting about his list to watch this conversation, to see this turning point. He never forgot what he said Sam- when did she stop being an it and become a person? Clearly, he’d found that point.

“He’ll sure give it the good college try,” she replied. Sam gave her a serious look, shaking his head.  
“After everything you’ve done,” Sam almost whispered, “I won’t let him do that.”  
“You’re gonna find your nuts for little old me?” she asked, her voice soft as she looked up at him. He gave her a sheepish smile, shrugging.  
“It’s a lot easier to stand up for other people than it is to stand up for yourself.”  
“That is an excellent point well made,” she replied, “Don’t let Dean go back on this. Don’t stand up for me, stand up for him. He needs someone in his corner.”  
“He has you,” Sam said. Meg shook her head.  
“He needs you too,” she said, “He wants you guys to care about him so much, I don’t think you realize how much he wants your approval. If he didn’t care, he wouldn’t get so angry.”

Sam nodded pensively as Meg looked back over her shoulder, turning slightly so she could see Kevin. Kevin quickly ducked his head down like he hadn’t been eavesdropping, scribbling nothing in the margin of his notebook to look busy.  
“How’s that list going, Dumplin?”  
“I think it’s almost done,” Kevin sighed, straightening up, “Are you sure you wanna do these spells? If you don’t want to, we can figure something else out…”  
“I’m sure,” she said firmly, “It’ll make Neanderthal shut his fucking gob, and frankly it’ll make me feel better too. I’m particularly adept at staying alive so knowing that you’re basically immortal as long as I’m immortal will help me stop worrying.”  
“Can demons worry?” Sam joked.  
“I can.”

Sam frowned, clearly still concerned. He rubbed his face, looking conflicted. He was conflicted- the whole thing just felt too risky to be worth it, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to coax them out of it. He’d gotten the impression that as stubborn as Meg and Kevin could be individually, they were three times as bad together. But that didn’t stop him with coming up with his own idea to help keep them safe.

“Kevin…have you ever held a gun?” he asked. Kevin gave him a wide, doe-eyed look, shaking his head.  
“No,” Kevin said, “I never had a reason to.”  
Sam nodded, holding his hand out for the list before looking over at Meg, “What about you?”  
Meg raised an eyebrow, smirking. Had she ever held a gun? Sure had. Shot a few people too in her time.  
“Yes Sam, I can shoot a gun,” she replied, “I’m a little rusty because it’s generally not my weapon of choice, but I’m passable.”  
“Alright- both of you are coming with me then,” Sam said, taking the list and heading out. He turned back, poking his head back in the doorway, “Come on. You guys are doing something to make Dean feel better. Do this so I feel better.”  
Meg and Kevin shared a glance before she sighed, waving for Kevin to follow.  
“It’s not a bad idea,” she said, “Might as well.”

They followed Sam down the hall and into the main room, stopping in front of Dean and handing him the list. Dean took it with a grunt, looking up at the small crowd that had gathered in front of him.  
“What are you three up to?” Dean asked, looking suspicious.  
“I’m teaching Kevin how to shoot,” Sam replied.  
“Why does Kevin need to learn how to shoot?” Dean demanded, “He’s got Meg.”  
“She’s not a nuclear warhead, Dean,” Sam exclaimed, “She’s a-“  
“Don’t,” Dean snapped tiredly, “Do whatever. Might as well give Kevin a gun in case she goes Kujo.”

Sam sighed, gesturing for Kevin and Meg to go ahead of him. They made their way down to the gun range, Sam grabbing Meg’s arm as Kevin turned the corner.  
“Wait,” he said quietly, trying to make sure Kevin was gone. He looked down at her, concern clear on his face.  
“You don’t have to do this,” he said firmly, “I know you’re putting yourself in a bad way, doing this. You don’t have to.”  
“Sam, it’s a gun range,” she said skeptically. He snorted, rolling his eyes.  
“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”  
Meg sighed, shrugging.  
“If it was Dean, or you or Castiel, I wouldn’t be doing this,” she said, “But it’s not you guys. It’s Kevin. Someone has to keep him safe and not just for those fucking rocks. Kevin trusts me, and what’s more, I trust Kevin. All of this is worst case scenario to protect him. I’m not going to say no just because it might put my ass on the line. He’s one of the few genuinely good things I’ve seen on this fucked up rock, and I intend to keep him that way and keep him alive. This is the best way to do that, and no one is going to change my mind.”

Sam stared at her, trying to find the words he was looking for. He didn’t understand her, still. He couldn’t understand how a being that had not only killed people but bragged about it could care so much for one human kid. It wasn’t lost on him, the way she preened over him in her own gruff way, the way she watched over and protected him. He may’ve been thankful for it, but it still baffled him.  
“How can you be like this?” He asked, “I don’t get it.”  
“Like what?”  
“I know what you can do. I’ve seen you do…fucked up things. You’ve done fucked up things to me. But at the same time, I’ve seen you save the world, run into a suicide mission with guns blazing, now you’re basically letting Kevin enslave you to protect him. It doesn’t make sense to me.”  
“Think about it for a little bit,” she replied, pulling her arm out of his grip, “You’ll figure it out, Stanford.”  
“Why can’t you just fucking answer me for once?” Sam demanded. Meg laughed.  
“If you’re seriously still asking me that question, you haven’t learned shit from me,” she chuckled, “Come on. Kevin needs to learn how to shoot.”

Sam sighed, trailing along behind her as she headed to the gun range. Part of him wanted to demand they stay just so he wouldn’t have to risk losing them, insist it was too dangerous; but then he’d be no different than Dean could be. His brother almost always had the best intentions, but his methods often left anyone (him, Lisa and Ben, even Castiel) who was subjected to them feeling trapped. Kevin hadn’t taken well to the basic captivity that they had been keeping him in, and Meg simply couldn’t be kept captive by them- she’d made that abundantly clear. Sam knew he had no choice but to surrender to this, but it didn’t stop him from worrying endlessly.  
Kevin looked fascinated as Sam went into the virtual arsenal contained at the back of the gun range; filled not only with the (admittedly ancient) gun collection of the Men of Letters, but Sam and Dean’s own collection from their various hiding spots. Honestly, they had enough weapons to arm a small militia against a large army. However, few of their guns were really suitable in his opinion for Kevin- especially not the ones he was marveling at.

“Kevin,” Sam called out, jerking his head at him as he selected a small pistol, “I got one for you.”  
Kevin jogged over, wrinkling his nose at the gun, giving him a skeptical look.  
“What’s that?” he asked disdainfully. Sam laughed, looking at the gun with a strange mixture of disgust and fondness.  
“It’s a Taurus 738,” he said, “It was my first gun. And now it’s your first gun.” He handed the gun to Kevin, watching as he immediately did what any kid did- he started holding it like he saw on TV, squeezing one eye shut and aiming at the first thing he saw.  
“It’s tiny,” Kevin said, sounding slightly disappointed, “Why can’t I have a gun like yours or Dean’s?” Sam laughed, shaking his head and laying his hand on the gun, pushing Kevin’s arms down.  
“Because Dean and I have been handling guns since before you were born,” Sam replied, “Now, first rule is don’t do that.”  
“Don’t do what?” Kevin asked.  
“Don’t treat it like a toy. It’s not a squirt gun or a nerf gun. It’s a real weapon that will be loaded with real bullets, and it can really hurt people,” he explained, “You’ve gotta treat a gun like it’s always loaded- even when you think or know it’s not. Get into that habit. I almost took off Dad’s ear the first time he gave me a gun because I didn’t realize it was loaded.” His expression blanched a bit at the memory, but he recovered quickly, “I’m a lot more forgiving than he was, but a bullet will fuck someone up no matter if you mean it to or not. You wouldn’t want to hurt someone because you were goofing off, would you?”  
“No, never,” Kevin said sheepishly, “Sorry.”  
“It’s okay. You’re a kid, that’s the first thing any kid does. That’s why I gave it to you unloaded,” he smiled reassuringly at Kevin, squeezing his shoulder, “Don’t feel bad. It’s your first time, you’re still learning.”  
“Still, it was stupid,” he said softly, handing the gun back to Sam gingerly, “Maybe I shouldn’t.”  
“Do you know how to ride a bike?” Sam asked. Kevin wrinkled his nose, clearly confused.  
“Yeah…what’s that got to do with this?”  
“When you started riding, it was hard to remember to pedal and steer and keep your body upright; and to do that all at once, wasn’t it?”  
“Yeah…”  
“But once you learned, it was easier, and you’ve probably never forgotten. If I put you on a bike now, you could ride across the room pretty easily.”  
“Yeah.”  
“Well, you learned to ride a bike. I learned to handle guns. Same idea. Don’t be hard on yourself because you made a few mistakes out of the gate. You’ve just got to learn from them,” Sam gave Kevin a joking smirk, “And then maybe you could teach me to ride a bike.”  
“You don’t know how to ride a bike?” Kevin asked, looking skeptical, “I’m not buying it.”  
“Nope,” Sam said, shrugging, “Like I said- you learned to ride a bike, I learned to shoot. Now, second rule is always keep your finger off the trigger and outside the trigger guard unless you’re about to fire. That’s really important for you to remember- this gun doesn’t have a safety. Third is always make sure you’re pointing the gun in a safe direction when you’re holding it and not firing. Guy we knew didn’t follow those rules and shot himself on a hunt with Dad. He lost his foot. And that’s one of the milder gun accident stories I’ve heard. A gun is only as smart as the person using it.”  
“Which is why Dean shouldn’t be allowed to have one,” Meg chipped in from her place at one of the many racks.  
“Meg..” Sam said warningly. She snorted, a smirk breaking out on her face.  
“Fine, no more Dean bashing during the lesson,” she joked. Sam rolled his eyes, turning back to Kevin.  
“I know the .380 is small, but it’s got minimal recoil, which means it’s perfect for you,” Sam said. Kevin frowned, looking up at him.  
“So, this was your first gun?” he asked. Sam nodded.  
“Sure was.”  
“And…how old were you?”  
“Seven,” Sam said with a hint of bitterness, “I was seven.”  
“You gave me your gun from when you were seven?” Kevin demanded irritably, protest clear in his voice, “So it’s a kids gun!”  
“Actually, it’s a purse gun,” Meg said, having selected the pistol she preferred, “So it’s not a kid gun, it’s a lady gun.”  
“Come on!” Kevin whined, “Seriously?” Sam gave Meg a sharp look, sighing.  
“Kevin, guns don’t have a gender.”  
“Unless they’re pink. Or tiny purse guns,” Meg teased.  
“As I was saying,” Sam said loudly, “You don’t need anything more than this. You’re not going on a hunt; you’re just carrying it for self-defense. That’s what it’s made for, and that’s all you’re gonna use it for. Now, c’mere so I can show you how to hold the damn thing.”  
Sam planted his hand between Kevin’s shoulders, propelling him towards the actual shooting range as he loaded the gun.

“Okay, first thing’s first,” he said, holding the gun loosely, “You ever see those movies where the guy holds the gun sideways like this? That’s fucking dumb. I’m sure you aren’t stupid enough to do that, but just in case someone gives you that idea…” he glared over at Meg who was literally doing what he just said not to do. She looked over at him, shrugging.  
“What?” she demanded, “I was channeling Remy Ma.” Sam rolled his eyes, snorting.  
“Anyways. Don’t do that,” Sam said, “You’re gonna wanna hold it with both hands. One handed is gonna do you no favors. I don’t even shoot one handed. Your dominant hand should grip the gun high on the back strap-“  
“Back strap?”  
“The back strap is the back of the grip on the gun,” Sam explained, “Holding it like that will you a better grip, which will help you control the recoil when you fire.”  
“But I though you said this gun doesn’t have a recoil?”  
“No, I said it doesn’t have much of a recoil,” Sam replied, “All guns have recoil, and if you ever want a bigger gun, you’re gonna have to be prepared for recoil. Now, put your other hand here,” he said, guiding Kevin’s hand, “Press it firmly against the part of the grip not covered by this hand. All four fingers should be under the trigger guard with your pointer finger pressed hard under it.”  
“This isn’t very comfortable,” Kevin winced, “You’re squeezing my hand really hard.”  
“Sorry,” Sam said sheepishly, “I guess I’m not crazy about the idea of teaching you to shoot.”

Kevin lowered the gun, looking at him curiously.  
“Why?” he asked, “You’re the one who suggested it.”  
“I know, and I know you need to learn,” Sam responded, “But…I dunno. Maybe it would be different if I was teaching you to hunt.”  
“But aren’t you?”  
“No. Not that kind of hunting,” Sam said quickly, “I mean…actual hunting. Normal people hunting. I’m not teaching you to do either.”  
“You kinda are,” Meg said.  
“I am not,” Sam snapped, “I’m not teaching him to hunt.”  
“Why not?” Kevin said, “I mean, you guys need all the help you can get-“  
“No!” Sam shouted, making both Kevin and Meg jump, “No, okay? Just…no. Now can we get back to this?”  
“Okay,” Kevin said quietly, “I’m sorry. Let’s just go back to this.”  
“Thank you,” Sam sighed as Kevin lifted the gun again, “Now, stand with your feet and hips shoulder width apart. Bend your knees slightly.”  
Kevin imitated the stance that Sam demonstrated for him, his body hunched to one side.  
“No, don’t hunch,” Sam said, standing behind Kevin and imitating the pose, his hands over Kevin’s, “Like this. You should feel solid while you’re standing. You need that stability. Lock your joints, make a triangle.”  
“Okay,” Kevin said, adjusting his position. It was weird, having Sam this close to him, touching him, “Um…”  
“Oh. Sorry,” Sam apologized, pulling away from him, “Now, when you’re aiming, you’re gonna wanna have your sights-“ he paused, touching them, “be completely clear, and your target blurry. Focus on them. Use your dominant eye.”  
Kevin adjusted a little, finally nodding. Sam sighed- here was the real part.  
“When you shoot, don’t pull the trigger. Squeeze it, all the way back with constant pressure on the front of the trig-“

Suddenly, the gun fired, Kevin screamed, Sam yelled, and the gun hit the floor. Kevin scurried backwards, clutching his hand and looking like he’d just been….well, shot.  
“It burnt me!” he squeaked, looking down at his hand. Sam let out a terrified laugh, shaking his head.  
“It didn’t burn you,” he said, pulling Kevin’s hand off the wound, “You got nipped.”  
“So it bit me?” Kevin demanded. Sam chuckled, shaking his head.  
“No, it’s a semi-automatic. It works by using the recoil force from firing to eject the spent cartridge and advance another one.”  
Kevin stared at him blankly, still cradling his hand.  
“Your hand got in the way,” Sam said, “It happens all the time. It happens to me even still, and I’ve been shooting since I was seven. Don’t be afraid of it.”  
“But it hurt!”  
“Well, now you know to keep your hand down lower, don’t you?” Sam teased, pulling Kevin forward, “Come on, try again.”

Kevin looked dubious as Sam picked up the gun and handed it back to him, not looking too keen on it anymore. He reluctantly resumed the position that Sam had showed him, trying to still his hands.  
“It’s alright,” Sam said in a calm tone, “You did fine. Focus on your breathing. Take a deep breath, let half of it out, fire, then let the rest out. It helps. You’ve got this.”  
Kevin nodded, taking a deep breath. He squeezed the trigger oh so slowly, and then…  
This time he didn’t scream, didn’t feel that painful sensation, didn’t jump. It was totally different- the adrenaline pumping through him as it hit the target at the far end of the range was intoxicating enough that he immediately turned to Sam, grinning.  
“I did it!” he said excitedly, “I even hit the thing!”  
“You did a great job,” Sam said, grinning at him and rubbing Kevin’s head affectionately, “See? You could do it.”  
Kevin was giddy, turning to Meg. He realized that he wasn’t paying attention to the gun, setting it down  
“I did it, Meg!”  
Meg smiled, coming over and squinting down the range.  
“You sure did, Dumplin’. Looks like you hit the chest and everything,” she said, “You’re a regular sharpshooter.”  
“Like you could do better,” Sam challenged, a smirk on his face. Meg lifted her eyebrow, a scowl on her face. Like she, a being who was alive long before there were even fucking guns, couldn’t do better than a child.

“Back up, Kevin,” she commanded, grim determination clear on her face.

Kevin stepped back, a grin on his face as he clapped his hands over his ears. She lifted the gun- one handed- and fired six shots in rapid succession, her arm barely moving. She set the gun down on the ledge, folding her arms across her chest. Sam flicked the switch, drawing the target in front of them and seeing to his simultaneous relief and irritation that all six shots had his where the heart would’ve been.

“Hey Sam, you like apples?” she asked sweetly, “How ‘bout them apples?”  
“Show off,” Sam muttered.  
“Eat me, Jolly Green,” she said with a smirk. Sam laughed, leaning against the counter.  
“No thanks, I already ate.”  
“Ooh, Sammy’s got comebacks now,” she teased, “I like it. So, is that satisfactory?”  
“Superb,” Sam said with a smirk. Meg raised an eyebrow.  
“Superb?”  
“Superb,” he repeated. Meg threw her head back, laughing as he shoulders shook. She reached out, slapping Sam’s arm.  
“Superb.”


	16. Chapter 16

Meg slammed the trunk shut irritably, turning back to face Sam. They’d finally all agreed on where to take her and Kevin, finally agreed on the methods of protection, and now she had Sam micromanaging her on top of it. The whole ride to the motel they were supposed to hole up in Topeka, Sam gave her the Gospel of Dean Winchester: don’t go outside, keep the curtains drawn, lock both the deadbolt and the door lock, on and on and on. She was at the end of her patience and ready to strangle someone. She wasn’t a fucking child, she could handle 3 days on her own with Kevin, fuck you very much.

“I managed to survive 3,000 years without your fucking help, Sammy,” she snapped, hoisting a bag over her shoulder, “I think I can handle 3 days.”  
“But you’re not going out there alone this time,” Sam argued, “You have Kevin with you.”  
“Ugh,” she groaned, rolling her eyes, “Fine. If it will make you stop worrying your pretty Winchester head about it, we can run through the checklist one more time. You ask me again, though, and I’m going to slit my own throat with this angel blade, I shit you not.”  
Sam let out an irritable sigh of relief, nodding. At least she was listening. He hated being a broken record, but with Meg, he had to be. Not because she was stupid, but because he knew she had selective hearing, especially when it came to Dean’s rules.  
“You got the food?” he asked.  
“Yup.”  
“And the weapons bag?”  
“Sure did.”  
“What about Kevin’s bag? The laptop bag?”  
“Done-a-rino.”  
“Angel blade?”  
“Currently trying not to kill myself with it,” she replied, “So, yup. Are we done?”  
“No,” Sam said, “Cellphone and charger?”

Meg opened her mouth to answer, pausing. Did she have that stupid thing? She patted down her pockets, frowning. Not in her jacket. She turned, whistling loudly at Kevin.  
“We got the cellphone and the charger, Dumplin?” she asked. He held up his, shaking it.  
“I got mine,” he replied. Meg nodded, looking smug.  
“Got it. See?” she replied, smirking. Sam smirked back, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a phone and wire.  
“No, this one is yours,” he replied as smugly as Meg had just looked, holding it just out of her reach, “Thought you didn’t need my help?”  
She gave him an almighty glare, reaching out and snatching at it before Sam pulled it away.  
“Gimme the stupid thing, Sam,” she grunted, “Lived 3,000 years without one of them things too.”  
“Welcome to the 21st century,” Sam replied, finally letting her have it, “Cellphones aren’t optional.”  
She took the thing, punching at the buttons irritably.  
“I hate these fucking things,” she muttered, squinting at it, “I prefer the whole cutting a guy’s throat thing to make calls.”  
Sam rolled his eyes, folding his arms across his chest. She was just trying to be a pain- he knew she was technologically inept, but he also knew that if she tried, she would’ve figured it out in minutes- she’d figured out his laptop in 30 minutes flat, right down to decrypting his encrypted files. If it hadn’t been so fucking annoying and invasive, he might’ve been impressed. So he already knew this was part of her ridiculous, unnecessary act. He didn’t know why she really bothered when Dean wasn’t around.

“Yeah, well, bowls of blood don’t make calls to cellphones, so you’re just gonna have to get over it,” he replied, turning back to Kevin, “You gonna be okay, Kev?”  
Kevin shrugged, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He was a lot more comfortable with this, knowing that Meg would be with him the whole time, but he still didn’t like it.  
“I guess,” he said sullenly, kicking at a stray rock. Sam frowned, leaning against the car next to him.  
“You’re gonna be fine,” he said reassuringly, “You got Meg, plus the sigils and spells-“  
“Yeah, I know,” Kevin said quietly, “I just don’t like being exposed. You guys are all predators. You don’t care if other predators can see you, because you can hold your own. But me? I’m at the bottom of the food chain. Prey. You ever been prey before?”

Sam winced softly at that question, not liking how any answer he could give sounded. You ever been prey before? He’d felt like he’d been prey his whole life. Always someone or something’s prey. That was something Sam had felt intimately, the feeling of being trapped by danger, enemies on all sides just waiting to get a piece of him. He never wanted to admit it, but growing up felt like living in a wolf’s den- eat or be eaten, attack or be attacked. It was great preparation for being a hunter- that naturally instilled paranoia had saved his life more than once- but it wasn’t exactly a pleasant experience, especially as the smallest one in the pack. Then he grew up and realized that he actually longed for the days when it was just his father and brother he had to be constantly on alert for; instead of the entirety of the heavenly host and the legions of hell grinding for his ass. No matter how big he got, no matter how strong, there was always something bigger than him just waiting to tear him to shreds. But that wouldn’t comfort Kevin. It would’ve just been pointless self-pitying whining.

“Yeah,” Sam said simply, “But you’ve got one of the Earth’s most highly evolved predators protecting you. Seriously, she’s basically a supernatural velociraptor.” He gestured to Meg, who was standing very still, her eyes scanning the area with hawkish precision. It was true- Sam had seen just what Meg’s predatory instincts were like. There was a reason he and his brother were so fucking terrified of her when they first encountered her- she was unlike anything they’d ever dealt with, and she was fucking scary. In fact, there were still days when Sam thanked whoever the hell that Meg had a change of heart after Lucifer got locked up in the cage. Neither Winchester really wanted to admit it, but having her as an ally gave them some breathing room, half from the simple knowledge that she was on their side. She was like a fucking heat seeking missile- point her at a target and she rarely missed. And they utilized her as much as they could when they could. Sam resisted the urge to laugh when he saw her nostrils flare, as if she were sniffing the air- like an actual animal. He knew she could pick up on scents, but it was hilarious at the moment, considering the running comparison in his and Kevin’s conversation.  
Kevin leaned over, looking at Meg and then up at Sam.  
“You got a point,” he said with a small smile. Sam smiled back, patting his shoulder as he turned to Meg.  
“Let’s get him inside,” he said, jerking his head towards the door, “Then we’ll skim over the rules and I’ll get out of your hair.”  
“For the love of Christ!” Meg moaned loudly, grabbing the weapons bag and the food cooler, “It’s like you just want me to fucking tear my ears off. I know repetition is the only way Dean learns, but me and Kevin are a little bit more intelligent than that.”  
Sam laughed at her, grabbing Kevin’s bag.  
“Bullshit,” he replied, opening the door to the room, “You have to be told a thousand times or you just won’t fucking do it.”  
“That’s a conscious decision, Sammy,” Meg replied, tossing the bag and cooler down, “It’s not a lack of intelligence, it’s a lack of impulse control.”  
“Which is a choice, all right,” Sam snorted. It was true- Meg could be one of the most cunning, patient creatures alive when it came to her quarry. She just chose not to control herself most of the time. It was like dealing with an overly-powerful teenager sometimes, dealing with her. He watched as she flopped face-down on the bed, the lower half of her legs dangling over the edge. She mumbled something into the mattress, making Sam roll his eyes.

“Can’t hear ya, Meg.”  
She lifted her face off the mattress, mocking him.  
“Meh meh meh, I’m Sammy and I have a giant stick lodged in my ass,” she said, doing a pretty good imitation of Sam’s tone, “I have to go over the rules a billion times because I don’t wanna get spanked.”  
“I’m not the only one who’s gonna get in trouble if you fuck around,” Sam replied, “So sit up and quit bitching.”  
Meg let out a short, angry shriek into the mattress, kicking her legs pointlessly for a moment before rolling on her back.  
“Fine,” she said, sitting up, “Go over Big Brother’s rules one more time. I’ll try not to die of boredom.”  
“You’re so fucking dramatic,” Sam sniffed, “Just like a princess.” He knew he was going a little low there, but he really wanted to put a damper on her attitude. He needed to get back to the bunker, and Kevin wasn’t gonna relax at all if he was there.  
Meg gave him a venomous look, her hands curling into fists.  
“Eat my entire dimpled ass, Winchester,” she sneered, “And no, this time, that was not an offer.”  
“Classy,” Sam grimaced.  
“Always for you,” she replied, kissing at him and winking.

“Can you guys stop doing your really weird version of flirting for like, five minutes?” Kevin piped up, “This is supposed to be helping me relax and it’s…really not.”

Sam’s face turned brilliant red at Kevin’s remark, biting his lip. He and Meg had always had this kind of banter between them- he didn’t know what it was, but it was fun, getting her flustered. Making the creature who always knew just what to say and when to say it resort to petty brushoffs like the one she just gave him. It was a weird sort of feeling, a mix between the high of winning an argument and the thrill of a chase. Because with Meg, there was rarely winning against her. There was just making her stumble, and Sam had noticed he was very good at getting her to stumble, and he had so many more opportunities to in the last few weeks. But in spite of all that, it wasn’t until Kevin had said it that he realized he was flirting with her; and that she was flirting back.

“I wasn’t flirting,” Sam mumbled quickly.  
“Awww, look Dumplin,” Meg cooed mockingly, “You made him blush.”  
“Shut up, Meg,” Sam and Kevin said at almost the same time, making them both laugh and break the tension.  
“That’s right, pick on the fat kid,” Meg sniffed, a smile pulling at her lips, “Fuck both of you, then.”

Sam finally managed to contain his chuckles, clearing his throat.  
“Alright, um, Dean doesn’t want you guys leaving the hotel for anything, okay? Trips to the ice machine and stuff are fine, but nothing else.”  
Meg’s hand shot up in the air, waving around like a student trying to get the teacher’s attention.  
“What, Meg?” Sam sighed.  
“Can we order pizza, since that’s technically not leaving?” She asked, “Because I could eat the shit outta some pizza right now.”  
“Yeah, is ordering takeout okay?” Kevin chimed in. Sam rubbed his face- Dean hadn’t exactly covered that in the hour and a half long lecture on the rules, surprisingly.  
“Um…yeah, fine, takeout is okay- but only if they deliver,” he said, “If you guys need anything, you can call me or Dean-“  
Meg’s hand shot up again.  
“What?” Sam demanded through gritted teeth.  
“What if you two chuckleheads don’t answer?”  
“One of us will answer.”  
“Yeah, but indulge me. What if?”  
Sam clenched his hands, trying to control his temper. He knew Meg was just trying to get a rise out of him; trouble was, it was working really well. It almost always worked- Meg knew exactly which button to push ad when to get him irritated and flustered.  
“If neither of us answer, for whatever reason, there’s a third number on Kevin’s phone.”  
“And who would that be?” Meg asked sweetly.  
“That would be none of your business, Meg,” Sam spat, “That’s why her number is only on Kevin’s phone.” He cringed, knowing that Meg was way to sharp to miss that he’d fucked up Her face lit up with glee.  
“Oh, it’s a girl!” Meg exclaimed, “Oh Sammy, you never mentioned any ladies for you and Deanie. What’s she like? Is she Dean’s? Lemme guess- blonde? Only if they’re not fucking though. If he’s fucking them, they’re brunette.”  
“Redhead,” Sam replied. Meg wrinkled her nose.  
“Ginger? Wasn’t Dean the one who nailed the ginger angel Ruby kept eying up? Stickin with she’s Dean’s.”  
“How the fuck-“ Sam stopped, folding his hands in front of his mouth. She was always playing games with him, trying to trip him up. He needed to stop playing into her hands. He took a deep breath, trying to refocus.

“If you need anything, call us,” he said, “Kevin, you cannot break any of the spells or sigils we have going on, okay?”  
“Got it,” Kevin said, “Is that all?”  
“Yeah,” Sam sighed, “That’s all. I’ll be back for you guys in three days- please, don’t do anything….crazy.”  
“Crazy how?” Meg asked, “Kidnap Kevin and disappear crazy?”  
“Yes, exactly that crazy,” Sam replied, “That crazy is not allowed.”  
“Got it, Samwise,” Meg replied, saluting him dramatically. Sam turned to Kevin, a smirk on his face.  
“You sure you can handle three days of her?” He asked. Kevin giggled, rolling his eyes.  
“I’m gonna suffer, but I’m gonna be happy about it,” Kevin replied, patting Sam’s arm. Sam laughed, shaking his head.  
“Alright then, Ron Weasley,” he replied, “Text me. A lot.”  
“Duh,” Kevin replied, sounding a little too much like Meg for Sam’s liking.

* * *

 

Kevin didn’t think he knew how to relax anymore; but sprawled out on the motel room bed, drunk and surrounded by pizza boxes in his pajamas was the most relaxed he’d felt since he was kid. Meg was sprawled out next to him in Sam’s shirt and a pair of boxers she’d apparently snagged from one of the brothers, playing with his hair lazily and humming.

“Hey Meg?” he asked, tilting his head so he could look at her face, “I have a question.”  
She barely opened one eye, her humming fading into a huff.  
“I might have an answer,” she said softly, poking his forehead, “What’s up, buttercup?”  
Kevin rolled over on his stomach, folding his arms under his chin.  
“Why are you so protective of me and Sam?” he asked, “You don’t have to tell me. I just don’t get it.”  
“No, you don’t,” Meg exhaled, finally turning her head to face him, “I like you. I don’t like people, and I don’t like prophets. That’s why.”  
“What about Sam?” he asked. She frowned, shrugging.  
“That’s a long story, bucko.”  
“We got plenty of time,” Kevin said, “And lots of vodka left.” Meg laughed, rolling her eyes.  
“Not today, kid,” she replied, “I’m gonna give you a raincheck for that one.”  
“Fine,” Kevin huffed, “So….how come you don’t like prophets?”  
“What is it with you two and backstories?” she muttered, “Fine, I’ll answer that one.”

She sat up, leaning back against the headboard.  
“I knew two prophets once. One was a withered old man, a religious rabble rouser. All he wanted to do was destroy everything that he decided his god didn’t like. He was a pathetic weakling that called for others to do what he couldn’t,” she said, venom creeping into her voice, “The other one was vicious brute who wielded his power like a tyrant, destroying anything in his path that opposed him, regardless of who they were. He spared no one.”  
“Woah,” Kevin murmured, “They had… powers?”  
“What, miss the part in your theological studies where they covered the “become prophet, gain dank superpowers” bit?” she chuckled, her expression going stormy. “Not Eliyahu, that worthless old bundle of kindling,” she spat, “But Elisha…that pig, he had power no mortal should have, and no mercy. Those men weren’t like you, most prophets aren’t. They receive their gift and they become mad with power, driven to dominate and destroy everything they decide deserves their ire- usually what they call “pagans”, it’s a nice umbrella term. And it all started with those two pathetic wretches.”  
“Wow,” Kevin whispered, “So…all the world’s problems really are religion.”  
“At least if you ask me,” she replied, “But you aren’t like that. You’re…innocent.”  
“What?” Kevin demanded, his brow furrowing. She chuckled, ruffling his hair.  
“You have pure intentions. You’re just trying to good, take care of the people you care about and the whole entire stupid world. You’re naïve, I’ll be the first to say it, but you’re also innocent.”  
“And that’s….good?” Kevin asked, wrinkling his nose and squeezing one eye shut with confusion.  
“Yeah, kid. That’s good,” she giggled, slapping his forehead gently, “Someone has to be.”  
Kevin dropped his head back down, rubbing his face into the blankets. Meg had insisted on stripping the beds and washing everything the minute Sam left- something about ‘I ain’t a Winchester, I can’t sleep In other people stink’ or whatever. He didn’t really care- all he cared about was the fact that they smelled fresh and clean and were still a little warm. He loved warm blankets, fresh out of the dryer. He rolled up inside the duvet, peeking up at her from the tiny hole.  
“My mom used to put my blanket in the dryer before I went to bed,” he said, “So it was nice and warm for me to snuggle up in. She always did little stuff like that, stuff I never thought about till I lost her, you know?”  
Meg nodded, patting his well-padded chest.  
“Mother’s do that,” she said quietly, “You never know what you’ve got till it’s gone. So when you find something good, something that makes you feel good, you hold onto that shit as tight as you can.”  
Kevin nodded stiffly from inside the duvet, scotching a little closer.  
“And that’s why you look out for me and Sam?” he asked, “Because we…make you feel good?”  
“Well, you do at least,” Meg replied, “Sam just almost murders me constantly.”  
“He doesn’t mean to.”  
“Yeah. I know,” she sighed, huffing some stray hair out of her face.  
“And you let him.”  
“Stop being such a know-it-all, Dumplin,” she snorted, pushing him away, “I do what I need to.”  
“But why do you need to?” Kevin pried, “Why? I mean, I got the idea that you and Sam and Dean used to be enemies.”  
“Oh yeah,” Meg chuckled, “We were mortal enemies. I kidnapped their daddy. And killed some of their friends. And took a vacation inside Sam once.”  
“Wait, woah,” Kevin said, wiggling out of the duvet and staring at her, “You possessed Sam?”

Meg sighed, folding her arms across her chest. Sure, it’d been a long time since then, but she wasn’t exactly proud of possessing Sam. Sure, it was what she had to do, but if there were any part of her life as a demon she ever regretted, that was it. She was Sam Winchester’s first firsthand experience of possession by a demon. She knew that it was something that left him scarred, hell it would’ve left anyone scarred. But she knew, considering her strength and age, that it was particularly hard on the younger Winchester, not just mentally, but physically as well. She’d done that. She’d done that to Sam, and there was no way she could ever fix that.

“I did,” she said, “I possessed him for almost two weeks. Then Dean and that old fart Bobby kicked my ass out back to hell.”  
“Why?” Kevin demanded, sitting up, “How could you do that to someone? How could you do that to Sam?”  
“I’m not proud of it,” she said sharply, “But I did what I needed to in order to serve my cause.”  
“Was that when you were working for Lucifer?”  
“In a manner of speaking,” she replied, “I don’t wanna talk about this.”  
“What did you do while you possessed Sam?”  
“I killed people. Tortured Deanie’s precious little cling-on. I think her name was Jan or something- Sam…man, Sam did not like her, but he still put up a fight to stop me.”  
“That’s…that’s fucking horrible.”  
“I know.”  
“Is that why you let Sam and Dean use you the way they do?”  
“That’s part of it, yes,” she said, “I wasn’t joking when I said that I wasn’t proud of it. I’ve…” she paused, unsure if she wanted to admit it out loud, “I’ve been trying to atone for that since Lucifer went back to the cage.”  
“Why?”

She wasn’t sure how to explain to the young prophet why exactly she had done what she’d done, why she’d switched sides, why she was trying to atone. The truth was, for a very long time, she had no idea what exactly had made her switch sides. She supposed she always knew, deep down inside; but she hadn’t known for sure until that night outside the warehouse holding one of Lucifer’s Crypts. The night everything changed yet again, tipping her life on its ear.

“Now that’s a story I’ll tell you,” she said, gesturing dramatically, “It was a cold, wet night-“  
“You’re not gonna make this super dramatic and weird, right?” Kevin asked. Meg dropped her hands, giving him a glare.  
“You wanna hear the story or fucking not?”  
“Sorry,” Kevin said quickly, “I wanna hear the story.”  
“Then shut your trap.”

* * *

 

They were outside the warehouse, spraying sigils all over the damn thing, as if that wasn’t just asking for trouble. They’d gone through two cans of spray paint a piece and she was pretty sure they were probably both high on the paint fumes. Which was fine with her.

“So, tell me, what were you wondertwins up to while I was gone?” she asked, casually spraying a sigil on the wall. She was genuinely curious- maybe part of her was a little angry about being fucking abandoned to nearly a year of torture after busting her ass to help them. Maybe part of her was- holy shit, was she actually hurt by the idea of none of them even thinking about her, wondering where she was? That was fucking stupid. When did she get this stupid? Sam shrugged at her casually, and she watched as he tried to throw up an emotional barricade. As if that were enough to trick her.

“Stuff happened. I was off the radar.”  
She stopped, turning to look at him. There was no doubt about it- she was in fact hurt by the fact that of all things, that was his fucking answer. Stuff happened. He was off the radar. After everything she’d done, that was all he had to say? She knew it was a little unfair, but she couldn’t help herself. What the fuck was that?

“Wait -- so I took how many bullets for you guys, and you didn't even look for me? Like, once?” She scoffed, shaking her blood-matted hair, “My hero.”

She paused, trying to swallow her anger, trying to ignore the instinct in her that laughed because she was stupid enough to think that anyone, especially Sam Winchester, would give enough of a shit to try to help her. Only time anyone seemed to give a shit about her whereabouts was when they wanted something from her. Or wanted her dead. She decided that now was not the time to think about that. In fact, there would never be an appropriate time to think about that. Thinking about that shit was for the weak and the humans.

“What's with all the "trial" and "being damaged" crap?” she asked casually. She wasn’t an idiot- there was a limited number of Trials in the world that had anything to do with the supernatural, and they all ended one way- death. It just depended on which one he was attempting. She figured it must have something to do with the tablets- so that narrowed down the options.

Sam refused to actually look her in the eye; which wasn’t exactly surprising to her. He usually focused on her mouth when she spoke, she’d noticed. Like he couldn’t stomach meeting her eye- which, really, she couldn’t blame him for. She’d been a bit of a heinous bitch to him in the past.

“Look, no disrespect, but you haven't exactly been the most, uh, trustworthy person in our lives, Meg,” Sam stated, trying to sound cold and failing miserably. She stopped painting completely now, facing him. She fixed him with an irritable look, her nose wrinkling.

“You're not gonna tell me? Seriously?” she demanded, “ How am I not team Sam?”  
Sam shook his can, still not looking her in the eye. Really, he still didn’t see that she’d been busting her ass to keep him alive? Was he really that stupid? She scoffed again.

“Fine. Whatever it is, you okay dying over it?” she demanded, watching Sam shake the can with an intense glare. What the fuck was this? Part of her wanted to reach out and slap him, shake him until he could see past his eager martyr complex. But he just stood there, silent, not even answering her.

“You don't want to say, fine. But remember, I spent time in that walking corpse of yours. I know your sad, little thoughts and feelings,” she said, a casual and teasing challenge in her tone. He turned to her, his brow furrowed.  
“That's creepy.”  
She caught his eyes for the first time, a moment passing as they stared at each other. Yeah, it was creepy, but she was tired of playing this game of cat and mouse. She just wanted some fucking answers.

“Here's what I remember,” she began, “ Deep down, in parts you never let see the light of day, you want to live a long, normal life away from creepy old things like me.” She gave him a sarcastic smile, making Sam look down.  
“I do,” he replied, shrugging, “You know, I spent last year with... someone, and, um... ...now I know that's actually possible.”

So that’s what he was up to, huh? Beating cheeks with someone, playing house. No wonder he didn’t come looking- he’d finally gotten what he’d always wanted, same thing he wanted since he was a kid. His ultimate goal. She couldn’t really begrudge him that, but that didn’t mean she was just gonna let this go. Hell no, that would be too easy.

“Wait -- that's how you spent your last year? With a chick?” she demanded, letting out an irritable giggle, “Lame.”

She watched as his shoulders tensed, his hands curling into fists. So, she’d hit a nerve- good. Maybe he’d stop fucking around and just fucking speak plainly. She deserved an explanation. She didn’t deserve much more than that, but she did deserve that. She smirked as he fixed her with an irritable look, resisting the urge to tell him how much of a child he looked like when he pulled faces like that.

“You know, how about we just wait quietly?” he asked, shaking his can again. Meg watched him sigh as she fixed him with her hawkish gaze, continuing to fire questions at him. They didn’t give her a break, so why should he give him one?  
“What was her name? You don't even trust me with a name? Cut me, do I not bleed, Sam?” she asked, her dramatic side flaring, “So, some chick actually got you off hunting, huh? That's one rare creature. Tell me -- how'd you meet this unicorn?”  
Sam lowered his can, turning to face her.  
“No,” he said, “I’m not just gonna pour my story out to you for free.” They were caught in another staring contest, Meg’s cold eyes piercing through his bullshit facade. After what seemed like an eternity, she cracked another smile. Good, he hadn’t backed down.  
“Okay, I’ll bite. What’s your price?” she asked, spraying another sigil. He turned back to the wall, spraying as well.  
“What happened to you?” he asked, “When you were gone?” She laughed out loud this time, it sounding pained. Oh Sammy, that is not something you wanna know, she thought to herself, It’ll just hurt you.  
“I got tortured by the King of Pricks,” she said, shrugging, “Not much to tell, Sam.” He walked over, grabbing her arm and turning her to face him. She almost tore her arm out of his grip, glaring up at him fearlessly.  
“Tell me,” he demanded, looking her in the eye, steel bars in his gaze. He really wasn’t gonna back down. She yanked her arm out of his grasp successfully this time, glaring.  
“Use your imagination, big boy,” she hissed, “Have you seen me? There’s a whole lotta this where you can’t see too. It’s Crowley. He’s no artist like Azazel, or Alistair, but he knows how to get the job done. I was trapped for a year with his goonies, trapped in a vessel, unable to escape. I couldn’t tell the difference between the days, I could only count the passage of time by when they’d let me lie in the pool of my own blood to go and search for a crypt that I lied about. Tell me Sam, what was it like for you in the cage?”  
“Don’t,” he hissed. She wanted to laugh in his face- like telling her ‘don’t’ would actually stop her.  
“See? It was the same for me, except, I had some… discomfort unique to my gender.” She paused, her voice thick in her throat. He stared at her, licking his lips. He knew what she was saying.  
“Meg, I’m sorry…” he said softly, only to be met with a shit eating grin from her.  
“Oh Sammy, don’t get all mushy on me now,” she said, shaking the can, “It’s just like Crowley said- I’m a whore, and whores are only good for one thing.”  
“You’re wrong,” he said quietly, putting a few more touches on one sigil before turning to her, “You’re worth a lot more than that. You aren’t a whore.”  
She huffed, rolling her eyes.  
“Oh spare me,” she snapped, “You don’t even know me.”  
“Yeah, I think I do.”  
“Let me ask ya something, Gigantor,” she said, looking up at him, “Out of anyone, you have the most right to stab me and walk away, or at least kick me around and treat me like dog crap. But out of everyone…you’re the only one who hasn’t played the ‘Demons are second class citizens’ card. Why?”  
“What do you mean?”  
“Azazel, Ruby, Me, Lilith, Lucifer…” she began, “All we’ve done is fuck with you with a singular passion unmatched. But here you are, apologizing to me because I got treated tortured.”  
Sam shrugged. She hated when he just shrugged at her, like his reasoning should be obvious. It didn’t matter that it was completely obvious to her, it was the damn principle of the thing.  
“Look… you’ve been here,” he said, tapping his temple, “So you should know.”  
She laughed, shaking her head. Yeah, she did know. Too well.  
“Ah yes, Actual Jesus Christ Sam Winchester,” she said, “Sam ‘I-am-the-least-of-all-of-you’ Winchester. Unclean since you were a child. You’re right, I do know why. Because you look at me, and you see something savable, don’t you? You have to save the unsavable, because you look in the mirror and all you see is some oversized freak, who will never be anything more than that.”  
“It’s a little scary how right you are about that,” he said softly. Meg touched his arm, cracking a grin.  
“Wanna know a secret?” she said, wiggling her eyebrows. Sam laughed, shrugging.  
“Sure Meg,” he replied.  
“I kissed Castiel, and for the first time in my existence, I felt clean,” she said, “And you know what? It was the worst thing that has ever happened to me. Before that, I never knew how…dark this was. How evil I was. Sounds stupid, doesn’t it? But you start to forget what goodness is, after a while. I used to ride my vessels hard to do them the mercy of killing them…so they didn’t have to live with the memory of me doing all that evil inside them. Now? I ride ‘em hard out of habit. Or I did…until that moment.” Sam looked at her, his expression revolted and yet…sympathetic.  
“And the girl in there?” he asked.  
“She stopped speaking, fighting. It’s almost like she isn’t here anymore,” she replied, “They do that sometimes- go dormant, just…disappear. “  
“Does it make it easier?” he asked. She smiled at him.  
“Of course it doesn’t,” she replied, “But I’m a demon, it’s what we do. I’m not sorry for what I am, or what I do anymore. I was made this way, just like you were made the way you are.”  
“But I don’t wanna be this,” Sam said, spreading his arms. Meg laughed.  
“I wouldn’t either,” she replied, “You wanna know why? Because you are like, the most obnoxiously good person on this earth and the only person tied with you is your brother. You’re not a freak because you’re evil. You’re a freak because you’re freakishly good. And I hate you for that.”  
“You hate me because you think I’m a good person?”  
“No, I hate you because if there was anyone in this world that had every opportunity to be evil and fucking douche, it’s you. But here you are, crucifying yourself for a brother that’s still miffed that you left him and an angel who just a few years ago, was ready to kill you for being an abomination,” she replied, tossing the can on the ground, “I hate you because you’re the only vessel I’ve had in over a thousand years that’s still alive, and I have to look at you and know that we’re not all that different.”  
“We’re very different, Meg,” Sam said coldly.  
“Your purpose is to save the world. Your one, singular purpose. Mine was raising Lucifer- but you know how well that turned out. And now, it’s killing Crowley.”  
“No it isn’t,” Sam snorted, “You’ve had chances.”  
“Oh, Sam, how could you see through me?” she sneered, “No. You’re right, we’re not that much alike. At least I can tell the truth. Isn’t that something, a demon is more honest than you.” Sam picked up her can, putting it her hand.  
“So, you wanna hear about my…” he paused, smiling, “My unicorn?” She took the can, smiling softly.  
“You bet your sweet ass I do.”  
Sam laughed, working on another sigil.  
“Her name was Amelia,” he began, “And she, ah, she showed me what it was like to come back to the real world. What it was like to be a real person.”  
“So, howdja meet? Hunt? Bar? Booty call?” she teased.  
“I, ah, well…after Dean was gone…I just kinda wondered around. Without Bobby or Dean, there was nothing. So I just kinda was a ghost. I was driving at night and this dog ran in front of the car- I hit him. And I, well, I had to take him to a hospital…the thing was still alive. And she was the doctor on duty and she was…literally the biggest bitch I had ever met…but she was right. She told me I need to take care of the dog that he was my responsibility. So I did…”  
Meg stood quietly, listening as Sam told her about Amelia, the motel, the house, Don coming back, with a relatively blank yet interested look on her face. He finished, looking at the confused look on her face.  
“Wait -- h-hold on,” she began, “There’s one part I don't understand. You hit a dog and stopped. Why?”  
He stared at her, incredulous.  
“That whole story, and that's your takeaway?” he demanded. She rolled her eyes.  
“Oh, I heard the rest. You fell in love with a unicorn. It was beautiful, then sad, then sadder. I laughed, I cried, I puked in my mouth a little,” she paused looking pensive, “And honestly, I kind of get it.”  
Sam looked at her with shock again, but for a whole new reason.  
“Really?”  
She opened her mouth to answer before turning slightly, withdrawing her angel blade.  
“We've got company.”  
She twirled the angel blade in her hand, bolting towards the two demons charging them with clubs. Meg let out a small laugh before they started trading blows, thankful that at least it wasn’t two on one. She fought the demon hard, dropping down and sweeping his legs out from under him. She stood up, throwing her whole body into stabbing the dazed demon on the ground. She yanked the blade out of the demon, and before they could say anything to each other, the air was filled with thunder and lighting. Their heads whipped around, trying to see where it was coming from, only to come face to face with Crowley. Sam could almost feel her tensing up, ready to pounce.  
“I believe they're playing my song,” Crowley said casually, stepping forward, “Love what you've done with the place. You really think all that was gonna keep me out forever?”  
He and Meg glanced at each other, snorting. Like they were naive enough to believe that.  
“At least long enough for Dean and Cas to get the tablet and get out.”  
Crowley looked irritable, moving forward again.  
“Castiel. So, that's who's been poking my boys -- and not in a sexy way. Got a bone to pick with you, Moose. After what you did to my poor dog,” he said, stepping around the dead demon on the ground. Before Sam could reply, Meg was pushing her way forward, a hostile smirk on her face.  
“You gonna talk us to death or get down to it already?” she demanded. She felt Sam’s whole body go stiff next to her as Crowley turned his eyes to her, looking absolutely delighted.  
“There's my whore. I'm not here for my dearly departed, though. I'm here for the stone with the funny scribbles on it.”  
“That's not gonna happen.”  
“Love it when you get all tough. Touches me right where my bathing suit goes,” Crowley replied, pulling out his angel blade. Meg turned to him, her slender hand shoving him towards the warehouse.  
“Go. Save your brother... and my unicorn,” she said with a shadow of a smile on her lips. Sam looked at her for a split second, their eyes meeting and almost telepathically communicating. Sam nodded, turning and bolting after Dean as Cas as Meg faced Crowley.  
“That’s absolutely adorable,” Crowley chuckled, “It’s almost as if you care about those poor saps.”  
“It’s also almost as if you think I care. Come on now, Fergus, you know me plenty better than that.”  
Crowley gave her a nasty, rage filled look, beginning to trade blows with her.  
“I am going to enjoy this,” He snarled, slamming the blunt end of the angel blade into her nose, “And no one is gonna rescue you.”  
She smirked, letting him beat on her as he raged at her between blows.  
“You’re all…the same! All…of you bitches…are alike! Worthless whores!”  
He drug her up by the front of her shirt, shaking her.  
“You made a fucking mess of my plans for the last time, whore,” he hissed, posing the blade high. She closed her eyes, anticipating the blow, but instead hearing a gunshot. She opened her eyes to see a bullet-hole in Crowley’s head, his body locked up. She wrenched herself out of his grip, diving to the edge of the devil’s trap she’d been standing in the middle of. The first part of the trap worked. Now to see if they held up their end of the bargain.  
Dean was bolting towards the car, not looking back, but Sam ran over, frantically scraping away enough to break the devils trap so Meg could get out. She quickly stepped out of the sigil, snatching the paint can from him and rebinding the sigil.

“You clever little bitch,” Crowley spat, “You know this won’t last for long.  
She gave him a blood grin, weakly flipping him the bird.  
“Just gotta work long enough for us to get away,” she replied, “Have fun dealing with the treetoppers.” She felt dizzy, falling into Sam and grasping his arm.  
“We gotta go,” she panted, “Now.”  
“You saved us. Again.”  
Meg groaned, pushing him.  
“Go, we can talk later or whatever, just fucking move it!”

Sam put an arm around her waist, helping her limp to the Impala.  
“Go, Dean,” Sam said sharply, “We gotta get outta here!”  
“No need to tell me twice, he replied, stepping on the gas and speeding out.

* * *

  
“Wait, hang on a sec,” Kevin said, putting his hands in a T, “So...Cas is your unicorn?”  
“Yup,” she replied, trying not to laugh at the fact that Kevin did almost the same thing she did when we wanted clarification. Kevin squinted at her, frowning. That didn’t make sense- what did Cas have to do with him and Sam? What did any of that have to do with him and Sam? What, because she loved him and he made her feel again? He was confused to all hell and back.  
“So that means you love him.”  
“Gag me with a spoon, no,” she said, “You don’t get the unicorn bit, I can see how that would be confusing. A unicorn is a mythical being, right, one that most people don’t think exists and if it did, in all reality, it would be pretty impractical. Sam’s little girlfriend was his unicorn. The one who was unattainable. Impractical. Sam could not and will never be able to have a normal, apple pie life. I could never be with Cas, and I wouldn’t want to be. He’s my unattainable and impractical and I prefer him that way. And I think Sam understood what I was saying. I realized a long time ago that I wasn’t right in the head after I was inside Sam. Sam is the only…” how did she put this? She usually referred to the people she wore as meatsuits, but she couldn’t stomach the idea of referring to Sam that way. Sam was most definitely a person, not just some outfit she wore for her goals. That’s exactly what she’d done before; but she knew a little too much, felt a little too much to say it. She took a deep breath before continuing, “Sam is the only person I’ve been inside of that is still alive.”  
“What about…you know,” Kevin said, gesturing, “Her?”  
“Who, you mean this one?” she asked, “She’s gone. If a demon or angel wears you long enough, your soul will pass on, Human bodies aren’t meant for more than one being in them. The strong one stays, the weak one goes. Besides, if it makes you feel any better, her life was pretty shitty before I grabbed ahold of her.”  
Kevin’s face was pale, sitting up fully and staring at her. She couldn’t meet the accusation in his eyes- she deserved it, she was the first to admit she did fucked up shit, but she couldn’t stand to see Kevin stare at her like that.  
“You didn’t answer the question,” Kevin said quietly, “Why have you been trying to atone since Lucifer went in the cage?”  
Meg sighed, folding her arms across her chest.

“I know I did bad things. I’ve done awful, horrible things, and I’m not sorry for them. But I’m sorry for the things I’ve done to Sam. But look at what he’s done, how he’s even trusted me on some level despite everything I’ve done. That’s why I’ll let him almost murder me constantly. I fucked him over, I hurt him, I stole from him and he’s still good to me. He still looked out for me. Because he’s Sam Fucking Winchester.”  
“But isn’t that a good thing?” Kevin asked, “He forgives you.”  
“I don’t need anyone’s forgiveness,” She spat furiously, “Who is he to forgive me, huh? Who is he to force his goddamn forgiveness on me? I don’t need it. I don’t want it.”

Kevin’s brow furrowed, wiggling his arm out of the duvet and grabbing her hand. To his surprise, she didn’t pull away.

“Why?” he asked, “Why don’t you want it?”  
“The fuck kinda question is that, Dumplin?” she demanded, her voice sounding hollow.  
“You said so yourself, you’ve been trying to atone. You’ve helped them loads of times. You’ve tried to make it up to him. You need to realize you deserve forgiveness.”  
Meg tore his hand out of his, rubbing her face to hide how red her eyes had gotten. She finally dropped her hands, giving him a smile.

“I’m so over this feelings crap,” she said firmly. Kevin frowned, shaking his head.  
“But-“  
He was silenced when she pressed finger to his lips, emphatically shushing him every time he tried to speak.  
“Kevin,” she said, her voice sappy-sweet, “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Now I’m gonna move my finger, and you’re not gonna bring it up again.” She pulled her finger away, staring at him expectantly.  
“Meg?”  
“Yes?”  
“Can I pick the movie?” he asked, giving her a wide grin. Meg laughed, flopping back and dropping the remote in his lap.  
“Just spare me any rom-coms, for the love of all that is unholy."


End file.
